


And Grace Will Lead Me Home

by Epiphanyx7, sunspot (unavoidedcrisis)



Series: And Grace Will Lead Me Home [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angelcest, Angst, Angst and Humor, Angsty Schmoop, Big Bang Challenge, Blasphemy, Cancer, Castiel hates your smart car and your dirty communist bookshelves, F/M, Fluff and Angst, I Don't Even Know, Ice Cream, Illustrated, M/M, Multi, Other, Polyamory, Puppies, Rainbows, Reincarnation, Sex, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Virgin sacrifices, bobby singer schools some fools, body transformations, castiel is a sad bunny, epic levels of manpain all over the place, everybody is damaged, goldfish, hunting things, saving people, semi-graphic torture, shouting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-22
Updated: 2010-05-22
Packaged: 2017-11-01 01:02:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 45,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/350265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Epiphanyx7/pseuds/Epiphanyx7, https://archiveofourown.org/users/unavoidedcrisis/pseuds/sunspot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In order to stop the apocalypse, Dean kills Lucifer -- saving the world, and dying in the process. But Dean's journey is far from over -- the pact he made with Lillith for his soul did not end when an angel pulled him from depths of hell.</p><p>After the apocalypse, Castiel and Sam are left to pick up the shattered pieces of themselves. In the wake of Dean's death, things are not as easy as they used to be. Castiel finds himself trapped on Earth, with no hope of returning to the only home he's ever had, while Sam tries to remember who he is without his brother.</p><p>Man and angel have nothing in common, aside from their mutual bonds to a man now dead and a future they must forge together, now that the hands of fate have released them. And they will find a purpose, find out who they are, and more importantly, will find a reason to keep going... even in the face of danger, even with the knowledge with every passing second, Sam is closer to the end of his life.</p><p>And when he is gone, Castiel will be alone. Forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Slumping down against the wall, Dean scrabbles for a hold against the brick. His fingers are numb, though, bloody and unresponsive, so Dean slides downward and hits the floor with a loud thump. His borrowed angel-mojo had never been meant to last, he'd expected it to burn out hot and fast like a flare; he hadn't expected it to feel like _this_. He is hollowed out, empty and with his insides scraped raw; the pain in his side feels as if he's been run through.

"Sammy," he tries to say; it comes out as barely a wheeze. His chest tightens painfully, squeezing even more air from his lungs.

"Dean?" Sam gasps, eyes widening as he looks down at his brother. "Dean..." His eyes take in the sight, the blood, the sharp glittering knife still clasped in his hands.

Dean stares at him, trying to shrink back, trying to get away. But it's not Lucifer standing in front of him, he realizes, when the knife falls from Sam's hands to the ground with a clatter. It's Sam, it's really him, it's his baby brother panicking and looming over him; Sammy's not just a meat-suit for Lucifer. Not anymore.

"Shit, Sammy," Dean says, reaching out to grip Sam's arm. "Did you see me? I _wasted_ that bastard, smote him right off of this plane of existence. You okay?"

Sam makes a pained noise that was maybe supposed to be a laugh. "Dean... you're-- you're going to be fine, okay? We just... Don't move. We'll get you. We need -- Cas? Castiel? God, okay, _fuck_ ; dammit, Dean, it'll be okay..."

This was probably where Dean should have tell Sam it was all right, tell him that this was all part of the plan. _Hey, Sammy, don't worry, I'll be okay after a few minutes and maybe a fifth of rye_ , but Dean blinks through the pain, holding back tears. His side is on fire, but the pain's fading so fucking fast he knows he's not going to make it. There's only the white-hot pain, warm blood spilling over his belly and a bone-deep cold everywhere else.

He isn't going to lie to Sammy. Not now.

"Sammy," he hisses through gritted teeth. "Hey, Sammy. You know ... you're going to be okay, Sam. Where's Cas? I've gotta talk to him." He closes his eyes.

"Dean?" Sam whispers. His cheeks are wet, but he doesn't know why. "Dean, it's going to be okay." He strips off his sweater, tries to put pressure on the wound. There's a lot of blood, a lot of blood all over, coating his hands and puddling on the floor, but Sam can't think about that right now because Dean's in front of him, Dean's on the ground.

"You're okay, right Sammy?" Dean whispers. "Dad'll be pissed at me if you got hurt. Just get up, okay? You'll be fine."

Sam can feel tears sliding down his face, falling to mingle with the mess of bloodstained cloth over Dean's wound. "It's okay, Dean," he says again, mostly to himself. "It's going to be fine. You're going to be okay," and he keeps saying it, over and over, because he can't let Dean die. Not this time. Not when it's his fault. "You'll be fine, Dean."

"Dad's gonna be so mad at me," Dean slurs. "S'okay though, Sammy, I'll get you fixed up. We have Batman Band-Aids back at the motel, okay? Just lean on me 'til then, I've got you."

"It's okay, Dean," Sam says, pressing his face into Dean's shoulder, trying not to sob. "It's okay -- I'm fine, I won't tell Dad a thing."

"Thanks, Sammy." Dean's eyes flutter shut, his breath ragged.

"It's going to be okay," Sam whispers. "Dean... it'll be okay, hold on, just a little longer, Dean."

But Dean's eyes stay closed, short wet struggling breaths and blood slicking everything. Sam's hands are covered in it.

"Please," Sam begs. "Dean... please don't leave me." It seems like it's been forever since Sam last prayed, but he prays now, for Dean. _Dear God, please don't let this happen. Save him. Save Dean. Please._

Dean takes a very long time to die.

It takes another moment for Sam to collapse, in pain or grief, but Castiel is there to catch him.

\--

Sam sits obediently, his eyes wide and empty as Castiel takes care of him. The younger Winchester is like an empty vessel, unresponsive and silent, alone in his grief.

Castiel, on the other hand, finds himself cold and furious, _wrathful_ as he's never been before. He does his best, though, stripping Sam's bloodstained clothes and putting him in the shower. He prepares Sam's food for him and leads him by the hand as he would lead a child.

As long as Sam needs him, Castiel will care for him.

The first night, Sam's eyes lay open, his breath shallow but even. He doesn't sleep, doesn't settle or shift or do one of a hundred thousand things that sleeping humans ought to do. Castiel takes off his shoes and coat, sitting on the bed next to him. He is not accustomed to offering comfort, he does not know what will be accepted and what will not - but Castiel carefully wraps one arm around Sam's waist and draws him close. It's an awkward hug, but Sam returns it, burying his face in Castiel's chest and wrapping both arms around Castiel.

They lie on the bed, but neither of them sleeps for a long time.

\--

Sam sits around, mostly, eyes wide and empty as Castiel takes care of him. Castiel, on the other hand, finds himself cold and furious, wrathful as he's never been before.

Anna appears to him the next day, perched on the end of Sam Winchester's bed while the young man dozes in fitful half-sleep, and Castiel's mood is dark when he turns to face her.

"How are you holding up, Cas?" She asks him.

"You do not get to call me that, " he snaps, anger and frustration welling in his voice. He knows that he is being irrational, for once, Castiel doesn't care. "You do not get to call me that -- you are not my _friend_ , Anael. Leave. Get out of here-- and --"

He doesn't know what he is trying to say.

Anna looks at him, sadness on her face, shadowing her soul. Her grace, too, is obvious to Castiel's eyes, even though he has none of his own left to him. It is a cruel, heartless blow to his pride that she were to appear now, when her presence is useless. Castiel does not need her help, Sam does not need her help. And Dean is past helping.

"Did you see his soul?" Castiel asks, when Anna does not respond. "Do you care who has possession of him, now that there is no longer a war that must be fought?"

Few angels feel emotions, fewer still could identify them. Anna feels guilty, though, and Castiel feels a smug sense of satisfaction at the sharp spike of hurt that his words send through her.

"I'm very sorry, Castiel," she says. "I wish that things had not--"

"You wish nothing," Castiel snaps. "You and your kind -- unfeeling, unthinking, _unworthy_. Leave, Anael. You are not needed here, and I do not want your pity."

Sam wakes up. "What's -- who're you talking to?"

Anna is gone.

Castiel turns to Sam, the only Winchester he has left, the only friend he has. "It was nothing, Sam," he says. "Go back to sleep."

Sam blinks up at him, blearily. There is a hole, a gaping emptiness in his heart, and Castiel does not know how to fill it.

"You should sleep, too," Sam says, turning over.

The room is dark. Neither one of them sleeps.

\--

Castiel does not know how to arrange for a funeral. He isn't sure that there is anyone left to attend Dean's. Sam doesn't help him. Instead he stays in his hotel room and doesn't sleep while Castiel calls Bobby Singer, over and over, never hearing anything other than the incessant ringing on the other end. It never cuts to the answering machine, and Robert Singer does not pick up the phone.

This is less surprising than it ought to be. The last time Dean died, the old hunter had not taken the news lightly.

\--

They give Dean a hunter's funeral -- not Sam, who is still in his hotel room, lying awake with Dean's necklace wrapped tightly around his fingers. Not Bobby, who Castiel finds drunk at the bottom of the stairs, his wheelchair upturned and his eyes glassy and pained. Not Ellen or Jo, who are both gone.

Castiel digs the pit by himself, builds the pyre as best he can, and lights the fire alone.

"Not much of a funeral."

"Go away," Castiel says.

"Oh, come on, no hard feelings, little brother." Gabriel drops down onto the cold, wet grass, pats the earth beside him invitingly. "You can't keep pushing people away. Not if you wanna stay sane, I mean."

"And you are... sane," Castiel says, doubtful.

"Well, no, I'm six fries short of a happy meal and loony as a toon," Gabriel huffs as sarcastically as ever. "Look, if you can't learn from my example I doubt that anyone will."

Stiffly, not quite sure what he is supposed to do, Castiel removes his coat and places it on the ground. After a moment, he sits down beside Gabriel, who manifests a chocolate bar out of nowhere and begins to eat. "Why are you here?"

"Just checking up on you, bro," Gabriel says. "It's not easy, is it, losing someone you care about?" He is staring at the fire, not looking at Castiel at all.

"It is not."

"Well, if I give you advice, you're just going to ignore it, right?" Gabriel asks. "I mean, I don't blame you if you do."

Shrugging, Castiel avoids Gabriel's gaze as well. "What good will your advice do?" he asks. "Will it bring Dean back? Will it heal the hole in Sam's soul? Will your words give me back the lost and fragmented shards of my grace, brother?"

There is an awkward silence.

"Well then," his brother says. "Forget about it."

Anna appears as well, but her face is shadowed and she does not approach them where they sit. She stands on the other end of the pyre, watching Dean's corpse reduced to charred bone and ashes.

When the fire has died down a little, smoking and looking nothing at all like the man Dean Winchester was, Gabriel sets it alight again with a wave of his hand. "Nice seeing you, little brother," he says, patting Castiel once on the shoulder, the gesture awkward and surprisingly tender. He disappears, vanishing in the same instant that Anna does, the same instant in which Sam finds Castiel and stumbles to a stop.

"Hey," Sam says. "Cas--"

Dean's funeral ends with Sam in tears, burying his face in Castiel's shoulder and sobbing like a child. "I can't--" he gasps, wet tears staining Castiel's shirt. "I can't do this again, not again, Cas -- I can't, I can't."

Castiel remains silent.

  


illustration by [](http://sleepwalker1015.livejournal.com/profile)[**sleepwalker1015**](http://sleepwalker1015.livejournal.com/)  


\--

Michael is the first to appear to him, decked out in all of his glory like the angels of myths and legend. Castiel squints at him over the neck of his beer bottle and says, "Can you tone that down? You're hurting my eyes."

Michael's unearthly glow (and beauty, he always was a vain one) dials down a notch, and then he says, "I am sorry."

This is the stupidest apology he has ever received, and Castiel has never received a single apology that wasn't stupidly ill-timed and ill-thought-out. "Yes," he says, and turns his head back to the television. Dr. Sexy, MD is playing. It is a horrible show, but Cas feels obligated to drink Dean's favourite beer and watch his favourite show, until Sam returns with the pie.

It's a better memorial than anything else Castiel could think of, and Sam shines brighter when he has something to do.

In the corner of the room, Michael is not used to being ignored. "Castiel," he snaps.

And hell if it isn't impossible to keep his eyes on the television. Castiel can't help but obey, the command in Michael's tone overwhelmingly insistent, and he has half-risen from his chair before he catches himself. "Michael, I accept your apology," Castiel says.

"I meant--" and Michael frowns, as if this meeting isn't going according to plan.

It isn't, of course, because two years with Dean has taught Castiel plenty about being an irritating pain in the neck, and a prolonged exposure to Sam has taught him how to be passive-aggressive about it, too. "That's okay," Castiel says. "I get it. You were more concerned with your own ego -- your own pride, older brother -- than with saving seven billion souls from a lifetime of pain and suffering."

"I was trying to save their souls," Michael protested.

It's ridiculous that Castiel should have the upper hand so quickly. "Their souls did not need saving, because He did that two thousand years ago," Castiel says sternly. "Or have you forgotten Yeshua ben Yosef so quickly?"

Michael blanches.

"I forgive you," Castiel says. He feels gratified when the words make Michael flinch.

"You cannot return," Michael says, awkwardly. "I have-- made a request. That you be allowed to do so. But. You may not return."

"Ah."

"Ever."

"I see."

Scratching his nose, Michael looks pained for a moment, as awkward as any adolescent teenager in out of his depth. He seems, to Castiel's discerning gaze, almost human.

"Sorry," Michael says.

Raising his beer bottle, Castiel tips it at his brother in a flippant, irreverent salute.

\--

They are broken, the two of them, and Castiel does not know how to fix them. He cannot fix the hole in Sam's soul, he cannot fix the hatred and anger in his own. He does not like feeling helpless, feeling lost.

When Dean had been alive, it had always been simple to look to Dean for guidance, for faith, for a reason to believe in humanity or in the rightness of what he was doing. With Dean he had a mission, a goal, a charge to protect.

Now he has Sam, and so Castiel swallows the lump in his throat and spreads his wings to fly.

"What do you want?" Sam snaps when Castiel appears to talk to him. He is doing something intricate and perplexing beneath the hood of the impala, and he looks up for a moment, turns his head to glare but does not move from his hunched-over position.

The vehemence behind his voice is startling, and Castiel steps back, studies the rage in Sam's hazel eyes. There is just enough green in them to be painfully reminiscent of Dean, but beneath the surface, behind the flecks of green, is a sea of self-loathing and despair.

Castiel opens his mouth to respond, but Sam interrupts him with a harsh, violent wave of his hand. "What do you need, Castiel?" he snaps, his body rolling back as he stands up strange.

Sam is a large human, solid and muscled, and Castiel knows that other humans find him intimidating. Castiel is not intimidated, however, he has never before found Sam to be particularly frightening. Now, though, the anger and callousness in him is enough to make Castiel tremble.

"I do not know," Castiel admits, truthfully, and Sam makes some soft, derisive noise.

"Bullshit," he says. "Just tell me what the fuck you want, and then get lost."

Castiel has no family, he has no friends, he has nothing in his life -- no orders, no mission, no rules, no guidelines. He used to have Dean, the Righteous Man, used to have Sam as well, and now he stares at the man in front of him, and Castiel remembers what it is to feel.

He feels angry.

"Get lost?" he repeats, his voice very low. " _Get lost?_ You dare-- You impertinent, ungrateful, selfish _human_." He steps closer to Samuel, grabs him by the shirt collar and shoves, hard, feeling a fleeting pang of regret when Sam is thrown back, skidding over the ground as he lands on his back.

Anger is not an emotion that Castiel remembers, it is not one that he has a lot of experience with, but he decides that he likes it.

He likes the empowering rush of energy, likes the hard, throbbing beat of his heart in his chest. He likes the way it drowns out the rest of the world, all of his hurt and pain and sadness until there is nothing but cold, icy rage.

Castiel steps forward, crouches over where Sam is lying prone on the ground, his eyes wide and stunned. "You tell me to leave you," he says, and he barely recognizes his own voice within the snarling, furious tone. "Tell me, Samuel, where am I to go? Perhaps I ought to have left you before, when you were insensible staring at your brother's corpse. No, I stayed, I stayed with you as you grieved for your brother, stayed with you as you grieved the remnants of your broken family. I held you up and held you together, kept the fragmented pieces of your soul from scattering like dust on the wind. And this -- this is how you show me that you are worth my time and attention."

Sam doesn't say anything. He stares up at Castiel as if he is a stranger.

Castiel shoves him down, a hand on Sam's chest, pinning him to the ground for a brief moment in which he can feel Sam's heartbeat, can feel Sam's breath as he inhales, and it occurs to Castiel that he could press just a little bit harder, crush Sam's ribcage, extinguish his life with barely any effort at all.

It's this thought that leaves him numb, anger dissipating like mist, and then it is simply Castiel crouched over Sam, both of them breathing hard and angry.

There is something else in Sam's eyes, though, something else that Castiel realizes he'd never seen in Sam before.

_Fear._

Castiel swallows hard, and he flies away, retreats to a small stone temple in the Sahara Desert, and he kneels on the cool stone floor, presses his forehead against the ground, and he prays for deliverance.

There is no answer, but after several hours, Castiel returns to Sam.

He stays in the shadows outside of the motel room, cloaking himself with invisibility, and when Sam finally pulls the covers over himself and goes to bed, Castiel sends him to sleep. He doesn't _need_ to stay, but Castiel has nowhere to go and he feels lost without a purpose, so he stays. He leans against the wall, breathing in the night air and guarding Sam's dreams, until the sun rises.

\--

Castiel spends two days with Gabriel.

He hadn't spent a lot of time with his Trickster-brother before, and now he finds himself in the unique position of having absolutely nothing in common with someone he ought to have a lot in common with. Gabriel doesn't seem to know what to do with himself, so he spends his time sculpting intricate castles out of ice cream, using his angelic power to prevent it from melting.

Castiel has nothing else to do, nothing but the words ringing in his head: Sam's voice, saying 'Get Lost' over and over. Those words hurt more than he can possibly say, because it is Sam saying them. He doesn't have anyone else, and even Gabriel is no substitute.

It's Gabriel who distracts him, who hands him a trowel and tells him to build the northern tower. Castiel can pay attention to detail, and he drowns himself in the details now, carving ice cream like marble, intricate stairwells and turrets, dipping a finger into the ice cream and licking it away.

It takes two days for them to sculpt the castle, and then it takes four hours for them to eat it.

\--

"Sam."

Turning over in his bed, Sam opens his eyes and sees the Trickster -- sees Gabriel, standing at the foot of his bed. "What do you want?" he asks, dully. He's not in the mood for a fight or a game.

"You really can't guess?"

Sam almost shrugs, but he really doesn't have the energy. "I don't care," he says, finally. It's the truth. He doesn't give a fuck about what the Trick- about what Gabriel wants. Gabriel can go fuck himself.

"That's not very nice," Gabriel says, and then he snaps his fingers.

"Wait --"

\--

They are standing in a sea of blankness. Everywhere there is nothing but blank white space, and for a minute Sam thinks he's been blinded. When he turns around and sees Gabriel, Sam's immediate thoughts are of overwhelming relief -- he couldn't deal with being blind -- and then he gets really pissed.

"What the fuck?" he yells.

"I'm going to teach you a lesson, Sam," Gabriel says, smoothly. "But you seem to be more stubborn than most, so I'm going to have to think of this one really, really carefully. Or you're gonna go out and do the opposite of what I say, and start the damned apocalypse all over again." And his expression invites Sam to join in on the joke.

"Not funny," Sam says shortly.

"You really need to loosen up," Gabriel says, pouting. "Whatever... let's get this show on the road."

He doesn't snap his fingers this time. Instead, they are suddenly gone, somewhere else in the same moment, and it's a movie theatre. A large, empty movie theatre, and Sam is holding a popcorn tub full of M&Ms and a large Coke.

This is the most surreal experience of his life. Which is saying a lot.

Casting a sidelong glance at Gabriel, who is settling himself into a seat and patting the empty chair beside him, Sam figures he might as well play along. This might be a particularly fucked up dream, but knowing Gabriel, it's not. Sam knows for a fact that if he does anything that seriously pisses off the archangel-turned-demigod, he'll be reliving the worst Tuesdays of his life all over again instead of sitting in an empty movie theatre with enough candy to feed a small country.

Gabriel puts his feet up, grabs a handful of M&Ms, and pops them in his mouth. "So," he says. "Let's watch the movie, shall we?"

Sam sits down awkwardly, his legs far too long to prop up like Gabriel. The tub of candy goes in his lap, and Gabriel leers at him when he reaches in to get another handful. For a moment, Sam is terrified that this is an actual _date_ , and then the lights in the theatre dim and the screen lights up.

It takes ten seconds for Sam to decide that this is not a dream, and it is also most definitely not a date.

\-- __

_"We are losing the war... perhaps the garrison is being punished."_

_"You think our father would--"_

_"Maybe our father isn't giving the orders anymore. Maybe there is something wrong."_

_Uriel stands. "Well, I won't wait to be gutted."_

\--

Sam drums his fingers on his knee, impatient. "Why are you showing me this?" he asks, bored. "I already _know_ that Uriel's the traitor."

Gabriel slaps his hand from his knee, turning to Sam with a look of incredulity on his face. "That's the point, _Samuel,_ " he says, and even his tone seems to be implying that Sam is stupid beyond all belief.

"So why should I care what--"

"He was our _brother_ ," Gabriel says, coldly. "He was Castiel's friend." And he turns back to the screen. "You don't understand what it means, Sam, for an angel to voice his doubts. Castiel spoke to Dean, first. And he spoke to Uriel. Don't you dare act like that means nothing."

Sam doesn't know why he feels guilty, but he turns his attention back to the screen.

\--  
 _  
"I'm considering disobedience,"_

_"Good." Anna replies calmly._

_"No." Castiel says. "It isn't. For the first time, I.. feel..."_

\--

Sam watches in silence as Castiel struggles with his emotions, as he begs Anna to tell him what to do. He doesn't say anything when Cas confronts Uriel. Gabriel sits beside him, tossing chocolate into his mouth like popcorn, crunching merrily away as if this is a not-particularly-interesting film, something he'd seen a thousand times before.

Sam doesn't want to pay attention, doesn't want to think about it, but he can't help himself. His eyes are riveted to the screen, to where he can see it on Cas' face when his heart breaks when Uriel says, _"I only killed the ones who said no."_

It hurts to watch Castiel being beaten up. Sam flinches every time Uriel's fist connects, and Sam tries not to look at the expression on the angel's face when he stares down at Uriel's body.

Sam hadn't known about any of this.

Now that he does, he kind of wants Gabriel to take it back.

"Why are you showing me this?" he asks again.

Onscreen, Castiel waits at Dean's bedside, spends hours waiting for him to wake up. In this version, Sam can see the outline of his wings, curled protectively around himself and around Dean as well. It's sad, and vulnerable, and Sam can't take it, so he closes his eyes and waits for it to be over.

"You're not paying attention," Gabriel says, sadly.

\--

The fight between Uriel and Castiel had been so ridiculously one-sided, Sam assumes that Castiel was never much of a fighter. He's seen the angel in action, after all, but this was something else. Castiel in the warehouse wasn't just fighting Uriel, he was fighting others -- four of them, and he was kicking their asses, trapping them and banishing them with runes he'd drawn in blood, throwing them through walls with practiced ease. It was still a one-sided fight, but in the other direction. This was a desperate Castiel fighting four angels -- and winning. _Easily._

Winning, until Zachariah interferes. Until the fight is five-to-one, and Castiel is bound and gagged, dragged from his vessel and into Heaven. Sam can see this, too, because Gabriel did something, changing them into figures Sam can see without dying, and so he watches the flutter of dark wings, sees the angels pull Castiel out of his vessel even as he heals all the damage done to Jimmy's body.

And Sam almost expects things to stop there, because he knew what happened on earth when Castiel wasn't around. He knows all about Jimmy Novak and his family, about the fight with demons and Castiel's return.

But the invisible camera follows the lightning-winged figures up, and up, and Sam realizes that Gabriel intends to show him what happened to Cas in heaven.

For a minute he can't breathe.

He gets the feeling that even this isn't really explaining to him what happened up there -- gets the feeling that this can't really compare, because his meager human mind is incapable of understanding. But it's not a stern talking to, it's nothing like that, and everything like what Sam has imagined Hell would be like.

He imagines that this is what Dean had to endure for forty years, and the only difference between Heaven and Hell here is that when Castiel breaks, he's sobbing and begging for forgiveness. For redemption.

Gabriel fast-forwards through half of it, saying, "This is boring," and pressing the button on the remote. Sam doesn't know if the Trickster-angel is actually bored, or if the sounds of Castiel being tortured are really just getting to him. Cas is his little brother, in a way.

On the screen, Sam watches Castiel begging Zachariah for forgiveness, watches him pledge his obedience over and over, watches Castiel screaming in agony as he watches Jimmy Novak's life torn apart.

Zachariah gives Castiel permission to go back to earth and the screen goes blurry. Sam blinks, confused, and when he looks down his vision clears enough for him to realize he's dripping tears into the M&Ms.

\--

When Gabriel shows Sam Castiel's death, Sam finally asks him to stop.

"I don't want to see this," he says. "Just -- stop it. Leave me alone. I get it, okay?"

"You don't," Gabriel snaps back, coldly. His eyes crackle with intensity as he stares Sam down. "You pretend understanding, Samuel, but you don't get it. This isn't _about you_." And he turns back to the screen.

Sam closes his eyes. He doesn't watch Castiel remade, doesn't watch Cas kill angels to save Sam and Dean. He keeps his eyes closed, wishing that he could cover his ears, but the only time he tries to, Gabriel does something and Sam can still hear everything clearly.

"Watch," Gabriel says. "Sam. Please." And Sam has always been a sucker for that, so he opens his eyes.

He sees Dean on the screen for the first time.

Everything else has been Castiel when neither Sam or Dean has been around, but this has Dean, and Sam couldn't close his eyes again for the world. It's his brother, larger than life, and smiling on the screen, in turns bitter and sarcastic and funny.

Dean makes a stupid joke and Sam laughs, because fuck -- he hadn't been able to enjoy Dean's sense of humour when all his jokes had been at Sam's expense, but Dean had been -- funny, actually funny, and so he watches Castiel fumbling and incompetent as he pretends to be a federal agent. He laughs at Dean's antics, at the way Dean's subtly encouraging and supportive of Castiel while still being himself. He smiles sadly when Dean talks about his own search for his father, and he rolls his eyes and groans when Dean starts in on Cas about losing his virginity.

There's a tight knot at the base of Sam's stomach, twisting and curling in on itself, because he maybe doesn't think the same way Dean had, but he still thinks there's something inherently wrong with Castiel's solemn acceptance of his fate. Sit here, quietly, and Sam glares at the scene the whole way through, watches some blond whore putting her hands on Cas, kissing him.

Castiel's face is vulnerable and scared and Sam feels sorry for him, and then of course he starts talking and she starts screaming and Sam laughs along with Dean onscreen, not even finding it in him to be jealous that Dean is okay without him. That had been the point, Sam gets it now, Dean had gone thirty years on earth and forty years in hell trying to take care of Sam, and this was the one time Dean had lived for himself.

But he didn't just live for himself, he did that and took care of Cas, too.

He's got a small smile on his face when Dean and Cas drive away from the brothel, when Dean pulls over to the side of the road and climbs out. Sam leans forward in his seat, eager to hear Dean's voice again when Castiel sits down on the hood next to him. Dean had an ability to inspire people, to make you hope and believe even when there wasn't any hope, and Sam kind of wants to know what Dean would say to Cas when he thinks Cas is going to die in the morning.

But instead of talking, Dean leans against Castiel, wraps an arm around him -- Sam can see where this is going and it's like watching a train wreck, Dean's hand sliding over the line of Castiel's jaw, Dean leaning in so very slowly until they're nose-to-nose.

And when Dean finally closes the gap, when he presses his lips against Castiel's and fucking kisses him, Sam is almost overwhelmed with sudden, white-hot fury.

No.

Not anger.

Jealousy.

"Oh, Sammy," Gabriel chuckles, beside him. "You're not even paying attention, are you?" And Sam really is paying attention, he's trying not to but he can't help but see the way Dean's hands are tangled in Castiel's shirt, the way Dean leans into him almost desperately. It's Dean the way Sam has always wanted him, Dean that Sam never got to have, and at this moment he hates Castiel with every fiber of his being.

Except Castiel pulls away from Dean, Castiel breaks the kiss, and Sam is immediately repentant, guilt eating away at him. Because he knows he's always wanted Dean, always been a little bit in love with his older brother, but for all of that, for all that he would have given anything for it to be him instead of Cas sitting on the Impala with Dean in his arms --

Fuck.

Because the look on Dean's face when Cas pulls away is shattered, it's broken, it's like Castiel is taking away the only thing Dean has ever cared about. And it might be, Sam realizes, Cas might actually be the only thing in Dean's life that mattered other than Sam.

And as selfish as he can be, he wants this for Dean, wants him to be happy -- even if happiness means that he is with Castiel instead of Sam.

But onscreen, Castiel's face is shuttered, his eyes half-lidded. He doesn't kiss Dean, he doesn't tell Dean he loves him. And Sam hates him for entirely different reasons.

He hates him right until Castiel leans forward again, when the angel rests his head on Dean's shoulder, wrapping his arms around him and holding him close. And Dean pets his hair, makes soft murmuring noises, and it isn't until several minutes of this has gone by that Sam finally understands what's happening. Cas is crying.

Sam keeps watching, even when Gabriel runs out of M&Ms and stops crunching, slurping loudly at his drink instead. He feels as if there's a weight on his chest, something indefinable and soul-crushing, and then Gabriel fast-forwards through Castiel's life.

  


illustration by [](http://sleepwalker1015.livejournal.com/profile)[**sleepwalker1015**](http://sleepwalker1015.livejournal.com/)  


\--

Castiel faces off against _Lucifer_. In hindsight, it was kind of a dick move to blame him for Ellen's and Jo's death, so Sam has to feel guilty about that, too.

_"You -- You are not taking Sam Winchester. I won't let you."_

\--

"I don't want to watch this," Sam says, because Dean looks tight-faced and broken, and Castiel beside him looks exhausted.

"Shut up," Gabriel says fondly, conjuring up an ice cream cone.

\--

Sam doesn't want to watch, but he does. He watches Castiel offer up his own life to save Sam, watches Dean go flinty-eyed and dark. Dean says no, and Castiel says, very softly, that he wants to help Dean save his brother.

Dean still says no.

\--

It's Crowley who comes up with the solution, Crowley who arranges to find the sword that can kill Lucifer, and Crowley who brings it to him. And Sam turns his face away from the screen, because he can't watch Dean die again -- Gabriel has made him see his brother's death enough.

"Stop," he says, glaring at Gabriel.

Gabriel is slurping obscenely at his ice cream cone, expertly fellating it as he raises his free hand and snaps his fingers, returning Sam to his motel room. Sam lands hard on the bed, feeling as if he's spent a week curled up into a not-that-comfortable movie theatre seat eating nothing but M&Ms and Coke, and his stomach rolls uncomfortably.

"I'd ask you if you'd learned your lesson," Gabriel says. "But I doubt you'd tell me the truth." He pauses. "You still haven't learned the first two, Sam."

"Those weren't lessons," Sam groans, rolling over onto his stomach and stretching out his arms.

"Don't push Castiel away," Gabriel says, his voice hard. "Don't hurt him, Sam. He spent millions of years as an obedient soldier, just another piece of the machinery of the universe. And he betrayed everything he'd ever known, everything he cared about, turned his back on his family and his friends and his certain future. He gave up Heaven for you and your brother, don't forget that."

"He gave up Heaven for _Dean_ , not for me."

"Bullshit," Gabriel scoffs.

Sam turns to glare at him, but the room is empty.

He falls asleep soon after.

\--

When Gabriel says he has business elsewhere, Castiel leaves him to it. He takes a quick tour of the pyramids to restore his composure, and once he feels more like himself he flies to Pontiac, Illinois.

The girl-child Claire is sitting in her bedroom, the open Gospel on her lap. She looks up when Castiel appears, and her smile is a balm to his weary heart. "Castiel," she says, sounding pleased. "You came to visit."

Castiel shifts his weight forward onto the balls of his feet. "I promised your father that I would take care of you," he says, even though that is not entirely why he has come. Claire, although she was his vessel for only a very short time, is always a presence in the back of his mind. In one way, it is a comfort. In others, it is a reminder of his duty on earth.

She closes the Gospel, laying the book onto her bed. She's quiet, sitting there in her room, and doesn't ask Castiel questions he doesn't know the answers to.

Finally, he shifts back onto his heels, walking towards her. He sits on the bed, carefully tugging the paperback book towards him. "Does your mother know that you are reading these?" he asks.

Claire giggles. "You sound like my dad," she says.

Castiel doesn't smile, but Claire giggles again.

"Does she?" he asks, because Amelia would not approve of Claire reading the Winchester Gospel, not with the amount of horror that Sam and Dean had to experience. It is, perhaps, a bad idea to give a young girl the knowledge necessary to summon a demon of the crossroads.

"She knows, but she doesn't like it," Claire answers dutifully. "It was my choice, though. She told me that I could choose."

Castiel nods, and Claire holds up the book she is reading. "There is only one more," he tells her.

"I know." She frowns down at the book in her hands, creasing the pages with her fingers. "I want to know what happens next," she admits, and Castiel is sad for her. The next book in the Gospel is the one that explains to her what happened to her father, why her family is now a broken thing. But the books written by the Prophet Chuck have not yet been published, and Castiel does not know when they will be available.

"Don't worry," he promises. "You will read them soon enough."

\--

When Sam wakes up the room is dark around him. Groping around for his cell phone, he finds it underneath a pile of questionable-smelling laundry and squints at the time. It's too early, he thinks, but he rolls out of the bed anyways. His mind spins with thoughts and memories from the night before; the surety in Castiel's eyes when he told Lucifer that he couldn't have Sam, the pain in the set of Cas's shoulder while Dean held him as he cried, the twist of Gabriel's mouth when he told Sam he wasn't getting it.

And he hadn't understood, not then, and maybe he doesn't understand now. He wants to, though, because what he'd realized sometime in the middle of the night is that Castiel had given up absolutely everything, his family and his friends and his home, everything he'd ever had and everything he could have had. All for them, for humanity, for Sam and his brother and now he had nothing. Nothing but the friends he'd made on earth -- and Dean is dead.

That leaves Cas with next to nothing. That leaves him with Sam.

Flipping open his phone, he dials Castiel's number, waits for the familiar crackle and then the rustling noise of wind. Opening his mouth, Sam says, "Castiel, I..." He has so much to say but nothing comes out. He tells Castiel where he is.

Castiel is standing behind him before he snaps the phone shut again.

"Hello, Samuel." Castiel says, formally. He doesn't come any closer. "I... I understand that you are unhappy. If you want me to leave you alone, I will. You need only to tell me."

Sam turns away from him, and stares out the window for a moment. "No, Cas, that's not why I called you here. I wanted to say something."

Castiel says nothing, just waits for Sam to continue.

"Look, I think I get it." Sam looks at his hands and tries to remember how to make sentences. "Gabriel was here, last night. He showed me -- " Sam stops. It is almost impossible to get these words out with so many false starts and echoing words. "I'm sorry, Cas. I'm so so sorry. We're pretty messed up right now, I guess, because of Dean. I didn't realize you -- I mean, I should have realized. You're so far from home and your friends... Uriel and Anna and Michael and the rest. Your family, I guess I meant. Dean was family." He sits heavily on the bed. Castiel sits next to him.

Sam continues after a moment. "Dean was my family and he was kind of your family too and now he's gone and we're both alone."

Castiel stares at his own hands for a very long time. "Dean was your brother," he says. "He wasn't mine. He wasn't my family, Sam---" and then Castiel is at a loss for words, desperately searching even though he knows all the languages on earth and some lost to it.

"I get it," Sam says, running his hand through his hair. "He was your friend," but Castiel starts to shake his head immediately.

"No," Castiel says, forcefully. "He was not my _friend_ , Samuel. He was so much more than that -- he was, he was my _world_ ," and Castiel's breath hitches, his hands clenching tightly into fists as he stares down at the ground. "He was never only my friend, he was... infuriating, and noble, and strong, and beautiful, and so very broken. I wanted to help him, I always wanted to help him-- I wanted him to know that he was worth saving, that he was not something worthless to be cast aside. And so I did... I did everything that I could, I tried so hard," and he looks at Sam, pleading, as if he thinks that Sam could make it all better.

"Cas," Sam says, and his voice is hoarse.

"It wasn't good enough," Castiel says, and his lower lip trembles, chin wobbling even though he clearly doesn't realize it. "Nothing I did was good enough, and I was helpless, I was confused. Dean told me to think for myself and I learned to do it, because I thought that maybe -- that maybe if I was better... if I was better, then I would be able to help him..." and Sam can hear it, in Castiel's voice, the slight shaking tremor that betrays his calm.

"You were always good enough," Sam says softly.

Castiel shakes his head in disagreement. "I wasn't. I should have-- I was going to -- and then Dean, Dean did something, he spoke to me and then I had to make a choice. I had to choose between Heaven and Earth, and I chose Dean. I broke my oaths and betrayed Heaven, and I failed in my task. I couldn't stop it, I couldn't do anything-- and then I betrayed Dean, and he hated me, he hated me and I couldn't stand it. It hurt in my chest and in my grace and every time he looked at me like I was something horrible, it hurt worse than anything they'd ever done to me, worse than fighting a thousand battles, worse than the siege in hell."

Not knowing what to say, Sam lays his hand onto Castiel's shoulder and squeezes.

"I was never good enough," Castiel mumbles, tightening his fists in his lap. "But I... I loved him, Sam."

"Yeah," Sam says, and he's a little choked up but he tries to bottle it up. "Of course you did, Cas. That's what family is."

Castiel turns to him, then, and his eyes are impossibly blue, his lashes spiky and wet with tears. "Then why does it hurt so much?" He asks. "I've lost brothers in battle, Sam. I've lost... so much. Why does this hurt so much more? Why won't it stop?" and a tear drips from his face, falling onto his hand.

Raising a hand, his fingertips brush over the wet trail of his cheek, touching the damp skin with something akin to fear. "What is happening?" Castiel asks, his voice trembling. "What is this, Sam?"

"It's okay," Sam says, helplessly.

"It's not," Castiel mutters, his hands wiping at his face. "It's not okay, Sam. Dean is dead and I am alone."

"Yes," Sam says, and his voice breaks. He smiles, knowing it looks terrified and hollow. "But we're alone together, right?"

Castiel nods. "That's really the truth of it." Silent tears are still falling from his eyes, sliding down his cheek and dripping softly down from his jaw.

Sam rests his hand on Cas's knee, comfortingly and in apology. "I'm sorry, Cas. I didn't want you to leave. I only wanted some time alone, some time to.... I don't even know. I was just. Hurt."

"I couldn't," Castiel assures him. He drops his head to Sam's shoulder, curls an arm around Sam's waist. "I tried, but I have a very keen sense of direction."

Sam is pretty sure that means Castiel forgives him.

A silence stretches out between them, but Sam thinks it's not so uncomfortable, until he realizes Castiel is shaking with the force of his tears."How do you do it," Castiel sobs, so softly that Sam can barely hear him. "How do you go on?"

He doesn't want to think about it, doesn't want be selfless, doesn't want to think that Castiel's hurt might exceed his own. But the broken, terrified line of Castiel's shoulders and the helpless pain in his voice is familiar, it's something Sam remembers vividly, something he sees in the mirror when he thinks about Jess, something he remembers in his father's eyes when they spoke about Mary. But he knows the difference between losing a friend and losing a brother, knows the difference between losing a brother and a losing part of yourself.

It's awkward because Cas is still pressed against his shoulder, holding on tightly, but Sam manages to squirm enough to fit both of his arms around Castiel, tucking the angel's head under his chin as he pulls him close. "Cas, please, it's..."

He is going to say it's okay, or it is going to _be_ okay, at least, but Sam decides that is a ridiculous and stupid lie, especially as he is so damn unsure about it himself. He lies back on the bed and lets Castiel curl into him, pliant and warm in his despair.

Sam breathes a few soft encouragements to the top of Castiel's head, but he hates the way his voice sounds, full of false surety and confidence, and so he shuts up instead.

And then he does nothing, simply lies still and lets the angel cry himself to sleep.

\--

His head feels heavy and weightless all at once when he raises it from Sam's shoulder. Sam is still, his breathing soft in the otherwise silent room. Castiel feels the heavy, solid weight of his heart as it beats in his chest, the thrum of blood through his veins, and the pain that never goes away, deep in his chest, unrelenting and unending. It is sharp like a knife, like a sword, and like being punched in the gut. It is the place left empty and open when Dean died, and there is nothing in the world that can fill that space.

"I'm sorry," Castiel says, and his voice sounds strange in his ears, muffled against the fabric of Sam's shirt. "I failed, I have failed -- over and over again, I have failed,"

And Sam is clutching at his back, fingers digging into the flesh of Castiel's shoulders as he drags the angel upwards, holds him tight. "It's not --" Sam says, but his voice breaks on the words.

Castiel cannot cope, he cannot deal with this eternity without Dean, he cannot fathom an existence without his Father, without his Orders, without Dean. And he meets Sam's eyes as the younger Winchester comes to the same realization.

They are both lost, without him.

The first kiss is an accident, a ghosting caress of lips against lips. The second is not an accident, it is intentional, it is Castiel drawing in a breath as he leans forward, it is Sam making a small soft sound as he realizes what Castiel has done.

But Sam kisses him back, he opens his mouth and lets Castiel taste him, lets Castiel push him back down onto the motel room bed. He tastes human and vulnerable and weak, and Castiel has never tasted anything so wonderful.

The ache in his chest intensifies, but Castiel is an angel of the Lord and he knows that Sam is his friend -- Sam is his friend, the only one Castiel has, the only person in the universe who understands. And Sam is broken as well, he has that same hole in his soul, the same empty place as Castiel, and he kisses back with the same desperation.

It's not gentle or soft, it's harsh and too fast, too rough, Sam biting at his lips and growling into his mouth. Castiel tastes blood, lets it fill his mouth as he shoves Sam down onto the mattress, tears at the faded t-shirt covering his chest.

"Please," Sam says, lifting his hips, and Castiel moves to straddle him even as Sam is kicking off his jeans. He drops kisses to Sam's jaw and shoulders, quick biting kisses that leave raised red marks behind, glistening with saliva.

Castiel kisses him again, revels in the taste of something other than pain. This is what it means to be human, he thinks, Sam's fingernails digging into his back, sharp flares of pain that trail down his flesh. This is what it means to be alive -- the flash of pleasure and pain, mixed together, desperation and heat and sweat beading on his brow as Sam's deft hands pull at his clothes.

"Please," Sam gasps again, and they twist on the bed, fighting for dominance and to divest Castiel of his coat, his shirt, fingers tangling at his belt until he tears it in half in frenzied desperation. Castiel reaches for Sam again, trying to lose himself in the kiss, shuddering when Sam grinds down against him, hard cock jutting against his thigh.

It's impossible to contain the moan when Sam bites at the juncture of his neck, and Castiel's hips jerk when Sam grinds down again.

"Let me," Castiel orders, hands tugging at Sam's boxers as Sam tries to rut up against him.

Sam mumbles against Castiel's shoulder, soft words that are meaningless in the empty air. They kiss again, harder, teeth and tongues and a filthy wet mess of mouths and lips, Castiel swallowing Sam's groans. He wraps his hand around Sam's erection, trails fingers over the soft skin, feels the muscles of Sam's body contract as he thrusts into Castiel's hand.

"More," Sam grunts, and Castiel squeezes him, gently, even as he tastes blood -- his own, and Sam's -- in their open mouths. Castiel thrusts his tongue into Sam's mouth and tastes copper and salt and life, and he drags his thumb over the head of Sam's cock, tastes the sweetness of Sam's exhalation against his lips.

His hand moves gently, slowly, coaxing Sam slowly towards the edge. Slowly, because Castiel does not want this to end; slowly because he can feel Sam's pleasure, feel it spiking in his own body as he brings the other man towards completion.

Sam is quiet now, gasping and breathing hard, his eyes squeezed shut tightly, lips forming words against Castiel's mouth. More, Castiel thinks, and he bites desperately at Sam's lips, sucks on his tongue, tries to crawl into his mouth and live there. He would give anything to drown in this, to live with the desperate hiss of breath as Sam's hips jerk, with the way the entire world fades away, the way there is nothing left but Sam's skin and his mouth and the tiny, wounded noises he makes every time Castiel's hand twists softly around his hard, leaking cock.

He wants more, he wants this to last forever, he wants everything and nothing --

And Sam jerks once more, his mouth falling open, and he moans into Castiel's mouth, loudly, his fingers clenching and digging in so hard it hurts, a deep hurt that Castiel wants more of.

"Oh," Sam sobs, "fuck, fuck, yes, please, I like --" Thrusting into Castiel's fingers, hips speeding up even as Castiel keep his touch gentle. "Oh, oh, fuck, Dean, Dean," and he comes, spilling into Castiel's hand, warmth and wet and Castiel jerks back, appalled.

Sam's soul is dark with shame, lying beside Castiel on the bed. Castiel is still hard, still aching, but the haze of lust has dissipated as if it were never there, and he looks at the depraved, intoxicating line of Sam's body, half-naked with his boxer shorts shoved down his hips almost to his knees, semen spilling over the curve of his stomach. It's the same semen dripping over Castiel's hand --

And for a moment it's too much, too agonizing to think about.

Castiel leaves in a rush of wind and wings, pauses atop a mountaintop before he remembers to dress himself, to wrap himself in a thin barrier of fabric and leather in order to protect himself from the world.

He stands on top of a mountain and stares at the sky, letting the cold air bite at his skin, letting the temperature leech the last of the warmth from his body.

Dean, he thinks.

Dean.

\--

Dean does not have eyes to open, but when he comes back to himself and sees where he is, he screams. It is his worst nightmares a hundred times over, it is every fear he's ever had, it is an eternity of suffering back down in the Pit.

"No, no, no," he chants, but he is surrounded by black-eyed demons, and they do not seem to care.

The pain starts.

This time, they do not ask him any questions.

\--

Things after that should be tense, fraught with emotion and confusion and whatever else could possibly muddle up the shiny, new friendship that had been growing between Sam and Castiel. Or at least, things that should be tense aren't. They are good at it, both of them, pretending that nothing has changed at all. Sam pretends that he can't remember the taste of Castiel's mouth, the way he'd been able to taste Dean on the angel's tongue. Castiel pretends that he isn't vulnerable, isn't scared, isn't waiting for the moment when Sam will leave him alone without anyone else in the world.

And so, Sam studiously ignores everything about Castiel that doesn't fit in with the way he's supposed to view angels, and Castiel practices the art of denial by pretending that everything is okay. It works, weirdly enough, they manage a functioning semblance of ordinary life.

There's still too much between them, hurt and despair and need; somehow, those very reasonable things manage to hide the fact that there's also a weird kind of attraction -- and Sam can't figure out how much of it is because Castiel is as lost as he is, without Dean, and how much of it is the fact that Castiel is... well, he's himself.

So he does the one thing he's always been good at, and throws himself into planning. The apocalypse is over, it's finished and done and they're never going to have to deal with this shit again. He could -- he could go back to school, or maybe just settle down somewhere. They could have actual lives, normal lives.

(As normal as it could be, with a retired monster-hunter and semi-retired Angel of the Lord.)

\--

They have a lot of conversations in diners. Sam pores over newspapers, squinting at the small print and mumbling under his breath. Castiel sits beside him at the table, takes a small bite of waffle. He isn't sure if he likes waffles, but Sam had insisted that he try them.

"You're going to need to get a job," Sam says.

"No," Castiel disagrees.

"Seriously?" Sam gives Castiel a frustrated, upset expression that Dean would have called his bitchface. "We're going to need to find somewhere to live, and--"

"I do not need to work," Castiel insists.

Sam politely disagrees.

The two of them bicker over the logistics of finding a job, and finally Sam concedes that it would be difficult to get a job without any documentation, experience, training, education, or other credentials. Castiel's refusal to let Sam create fake credentials is a point of contention.

"You could wait tables, or something," Sam suggests.

Castiel considers this. "No," he decides. "I would not enjoy that."

\--

During the daylight hours, Sam pretends that everything is normal. During the night, he drinks. And drinks. And sometimes (but not often) he manages to drink enough alcohol to forget about his nightmares, to forget about the solid ache in his chest, to forget about the warm place in his soul where Dean used to be.

Sometimes. But not often.

\--

The sunlight glaring through the thin curtains on the motel room's window manages to pierce straight through Sam's skull, sending pain rattling around his head. He feels as if his brain has been scooped out and filled with rusty nails, and every time he tries to move, the damn things scrape against the inside of his skull. He hasn't been this hung over since his twenty-first birthday, when he'd gone out for drinks with Jess and somehow been shanghaied into doing more shots than he could remember.

His mouth tastes foul, his eyes are bloodshot, and his hair is greasier than it had any right to be. Stumbling into the shower, Sam has to wait under the spray for a few minutes before his spinning, aching head will let him move without threatening to spew his guts out onto the tile.

"This fucking sucks," Sam says, closing his eyes. He doesn't actually remember the last time he took a shower, it was probably a few days ago. It feels good to be clean, though. For a minute, he thinks he hears Dean's voice, Jesus, take a shower, Sammy, you smell like ass. But there's no sound in the motel room, and when he steps out of the bathroom and pads, barefoot, back into the bedroom, there's only one bed in the room, only one duffel lying on the ground.

"Yeah," Sam says.

He's only just gotten dressed and is considering breakfast when Castiel appears in the room, his expression grave. "Sam," he says, and for the first time, Sam witnesses Castiel's Serious Business Face.

"What's going on, Cas?" he asks. The words sound forced, awkward, not nearly as cheerful as he would like.

Castiel looks at him, really looks at him, and Sam stares into his too-blue eyes for a moment before the angel finally responds. "We have work to do," he snaps, and then he turns around, looking disparagingly around the motel room. "Get your things," he says, and Sam feels like he's thirteen years old, being yelled at by his father to get his ass into gear and his bag into the trunk.

"Hold on just a minute," he says, trying for 'calm' and instead sounding 'irritated'. "What's going on? You need to talk to me, Cas. What exactly are we up against?"

The expression on Castiel's face isn't one Sam has ever seen before. Spinning around, Castiel's eyes are almost _black_ as he glares at Sam. There is nothing friendly in his expression, nothing gentle. Castiel looks like Dean had when he'd faced down Azazel, and Sam is suddenly reminded of how much fucking power the angel has at his fingertips. Cas can pick him up and toss him twenty feet in the air with no more effort than Sam puts into picking up a cup of coffee, and the Castiel he is looking at is most definitely considering doing it.

He shouldn't be scared of Cas, but fuck, he really, really is.

"Just... let me..." Sam grabs his duffel, shoving his dirty clothes in with the clean stuff and not bothering to gather up any of the scattered detritus around the room. He shoves his gun into the bag as well, grabbing Dean's old .45 and tucking it into the waistband of his jeans. "Where are we going?" he asks, and yeah, this was exactly like being a thirteen-year-old who wasn't allowed to get out of the car unless Dad said so.

"Pontiac, Illinois," Castiel says.

\--


	2. Chapter 2

The house isn't exactly as Sam remembers it. It's not as well taken care of, there are scorch marks on the porch and bars on the windows, but it's still a nice house. Castiel walks into the front door as if he belongs there, and Sam follows with his shotgun out, ready to fight whatever was in there.  
  
Except it turns out that what's inside the house is a mostly hysterical Amelia Novak, one who hisses in displeasure when Castiel walks into the living room.  
  
"You did this," she yells, and Sam barely has time to catch her wrist, spinning her around and squeezing until she drops the knife.  
  
"No," Castiel says, because he's awesome with words and likes making Sam's job even harder.  
  
Amelia is still crying, fat splotchy tears running down her face, and she looks like a complete wreck.  
  
"Um," Sam says.  
  
Castiel looks around, eyes narrowed, as if he's searching for something.  
  
"Can you please tell me what's going on?" Sam asks, still holding onto his shotgun and Amelia's wrist.  
  
She twists in his grip, unable to break it but seeming unwilling to relax. "This is all your fault," she tells Sam. "It's your fault that -- that they took my little girl," and the look she gives Cas is positively toxic. "Are you happy now? Or is there more of my family you're going to take from me?"  
  
Castiel doesn't even acknowledge her existence, which Sam personally thinks is a dick move. He's still hung over and he's grieving his brother's death and he's also being ordered around by a pissed-off dickhead with a never-explains-himself-to-anyone complex, so Sam thinks that he's reacting pretty damn well under the circumstances. Comforting crying women, however, is a little bit beyond Sam's capabilities at the moment, so he lets go of Amelia's wrist.  
  
"If you stab him again, you'll feel a lot better," he advises.  
  
Amelia glares at him, but she bends to pick up her knife.  
  
Castiel turns to Sam. "The girl Claire is in trouble," he says. "Approximately forty-seven minutes ago I sensed that she was in distress. I came to check on her, only to find her gone from this residence. I attempted to track her using my abilities, but something has hidden her from me. I require your assistance in retrieving her."  
  
For a minute, Sam thinks that Amelia is going to stab Castiel again, but instead she stares at him, kind of blank-faced. "I want to talk to Jimmy," she mumbles.  
  
"No." Castiel doesn't look away from Sam when he speaks. "Every second lost is precious. Samuel, demons have taken her. Tell me how we might track them."  
  
And then Amelia and Cas are both staring at Sam.  
  
He closes his eyes.  
  
His stomach still hates him, rolling and clenching in his gut like a nest of writhing snakes. He's about six seconds from puking, every time he has to move his muscles protest, and he hasn't had breakfast or even a cup of coffee yet. "Um," Sam says, because all of a sudden the tables have turned and he has no idea what the fuck is going on.  
  
"Samuel," Castiel snaps. "Tell me what to do."  
  
"Right," Sam says, because it was always Dean's job to think on his feet, Dean who did the spur-of-the-moment plans that always went to hell and turned out far better than Sam would have predicted. Sam feels frozen, because Castiel and Amelia are still staring at him, as if he's the one with the answers, as if he's the hero here -- and Sam doesn't -- he can't --  
  
He's not _Dean_.  
  
"I don't know," he says, but Castiel shakes his head, refusing to accept that as an answer. "I don't know," Sam insists.  
  
"My usual methods are useless," Castiel says. "I cannot find her, although I can sense her presence. She is still alive, but she is scared and hurt. I do not know any method of finding her, or of tracking the demons who took her. Tell me what to do, Sam. How can I find her?"  
  
"Look," Sam snaps, suddenly angry. His head hurts, a lot, a headache that's pressing out into the back of his skull and up against his eyes, like too much pressure forcing itself outwards. "I _don't fucking know_ , okay? You're the angel here, aren't you supposed to know? Shouldn't you be able to do something? I'm just..."  
  
Amelia's expression is bitterly amused. "Of course," she says, soft enough that Sam can pretend not to hear her.  
  
She's kind of a bitch, Sam thinks meanly.  
  
"Look, Cas," he says, tired. "I don't actually know all there is about... tracking people. I mean, I don't even know how to hide from angels, unless you count those freaky symbols that you carved into my ribs -- and that was your handiwork, so if anyone was going to know how to circumvent that tracking thing, it would be you. The only way I've ever had of hiding from angels was by using those hex bags Ruby made for us -- and I have no idea what the spell there involved. I have no idea how to break it, either, except for by destroying the hex bags."  
  
Castiel stares at him. "So the demons have a warlock with them," he says, ominously. His expression darkens.  
  
It's entirely possible that Castiel is angry.  
  
"Um," Sam says. "Yeah. That or a witch." He runs his free hand through his hair, shouldering the shotgun and glancing around the room. "Look, is there some way of tracking the hex bags?"  
  
"There might be a way," Castiel says, slowly. "It would be difficult."  
  
\--  
  
Three hours after Claire has been taken, Sam's sprawled out on the couch with his eyes shut and an icepack over his head. Amelia hands him a cup of coffee in companionable silence, and then she sits next to him, one soft hand gently petting Sam's hair. "I'm sorry," she says, after a second.  
  
"What are you apologizing for?" Sam mumbles around a mouthful of coffee. The room is pretty dark, all the lights turned off and most of the curtains drawn, which makes it a hell of a lot more bearable on his aching head.  
  
"I know it's not your fault," she says. "It's not his either, but I just... I can't be rational, when I see him."  
  
Sam can't remember, for a moment, why Amelia is so awkward around Castiel. When he does, he takes a too-large mouthful of hot coffee and almost chokes on it, managing to avoid spraying it all over the couch and then sputtering and coughing instead. "Um," he croaks, staring at her wide-eyed and feeling like the douchiest sort of tool for not realizing that Cas is still walking around in a Jimmy-Suit which is exactly the kind of thing that might make Amelia uncomfortable.  
  
She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "I want to thank you for... trying," she says. "I mean. I wouldn't have the slightest idea how to get my little girl back." Her eyelashes flutter as she looks down, at her hands which are now twisted in her lap. "So. Thank you. And... and thank him, for me. After."  
  
Sam is deeply, deeply uncomfortable with the fact that Castiel's meat-suit's wife is currently asking him to thank Cas for saving -- or failing to save -- her daughter from a bunch of demons, when all he's done in the past two and a half hours is feel useless and say something that made Castiel pop out of existence.  
  
"Uh," he says, eloquently. "Look -- Amelia," and then he isn't quite sure what he wants to say, so he trails off. "Look," he says again. "I know it's hard to uh, see Cas walking around wearing your husband--" and oh yeah, he definitely could have phrased that better...  
  
Amelia actually cracks a smile at that. "That's true," she agrees.  
  
"You've got every right to hate him," Sam says, carefully drinking more coffee. "Because... well, if it hadn't have been for him, your family would be... together."  
  
She looks back up at him, and her mouth is set in a tight flat line, lips pressed together. She doesn't say it, but Sam can see it all over her face that she hates Cas for that very reason. Right. _Tread carefully, Sammy,_ the Dean-voice in his head says, sarcastic as usual. _You don't want to piss this one off._  
  
"The thing you need to remember," Sam says, because he is a fucking idiot, "Is that without Cas, your family would be dead, too."  
  
Amelia stares at him as if he'd just announced he had eleven testicles, instead of the usual three.  
  
Sam barrels on, because once he's committed himself to a course of action he's too hard-headed to do anything other than see it through to the bitter end. "So maybe you should think about that, when you look at him. Because it wasn't Cas who drove Jimmy out of here, it was you. All Jimmy did was do what it took to save your life, your daughter's life, and the lives of about six billion other people in the world -- and Cas is the guy who helped him do it."  
  
And with that said, he's probably going to get slapped. Sam braces himself, but for some reason, Amelia doesn't hit him.  
  
Maybe she's going to kill him later.  
  
Before she can respond, though, Castiel appears in the room, looking harried and windswept. "Sam," he says. "I have located someone who may be able to help us. Have you finished compiling a list of the spell components in Ruby's hex bags?"  
  
"On the table," Sam gestures with his coffee mug. Castiel glances at the legal pad, Amelia's handwriting detailing what Sam could remember.  
  
"Good."  
  
Sam catches the tail end of a tan trench coat flapping as Castiel disappears into the kitchen, and then he's alone with Amelia again.  
  
"Uh," Sam says, haltingly. "Just -- so you know. For comparison's sake... all angels are like that." _They're dicks_ , his Dean-voice supplies helpfully. "They're not very personable. They're... uh, they're kind of dicks. Castiel is one of the nicest ones, and he hasn't even learned to say please yet."  
  
Amelia nods. "Thanks for that, Sam," she says, and it only sounds moderately sarcastic. "I appreciate your... candour."  
  
"I'm going to go see if Cas needs any help," Sam says, and then he flees in terror because the cold look in Amelia's eyes means she's seriously considering killing him, and he's not sure he could stop her.  
  
\--  
  
Amelia knows how to shoot a gun, and she's almost as accurate a shot as Sam. Castiel can't use a gun worth shit, but as long as he's still bulletproof, invincible, and can teleport with ease, Sam's pretty certain he doesn't need to be able to use a gun. He could probably stop bullets with his mind if he tried.  
  
"I have found a way to track the hex bags being used to mask Claire's presence," Castiel says, and Sam stares at him, surprised.  
  
"I thought it would take you longer," he mutters, and Castiel doesn't seem to understand.  
  
"It has been several hours," Castiel says, stiffly.  
  
"You didn't figure out how to track us when it was Dean and me," Sam interjects.  
  
"I did not know the precise ingredients of the hex bags, nor was I worried about your ability to protect yourselves," Castiel retorts.  
  
Amelia is loading the guns, carefully checking everything. Sam isn't quite sure how familiar she is with the process, but she handles everything with the ease of practice and familiarity. She must have been raised in the country, he thinks, because she handles a shotgun and a rifle with ease, but seems slightly more hesitant about the pistols.  
  
"Okay, so where is she?"  
  
"They are moving her," Castiel says. "I believe I have determined their location. I intend to bring us all ahead of them, so that we can have the element of surprise."  
  
"Do you know what they want with my baby?" Amelia asks, quietly.  
  
"I am not sure,"  
  
"But you think you know?"  
  
"Yes." Castiel is silent for a very long time. "I believe they intend to use her as a virgin sacrifice," he says, obviously deeply uncomfortable with the thought.  
  
Sam coughs.  
  
Amelia looks at least moderately amused. "Wait, that's it?"  
  
As if he's unsure whether she's being serious or not, Castiel maintains his grave, serious expression, but although he opens his mouth to speak, he doesn't make any noise.  
  
"That's... okay, that's just weird," Sam says. "Is there some sort of meaning to this, or do these guys routinely sacrifice virgins? Lucifer's dead, it can't be anything to do with that."  
  
"The apocalypse may have been averted for the time being," Castiel intones seriously, "but there are several high-level demons which have not yet been destroyed. I believe it is their intent to spill Claire's blood in order to raise up the demon Ashmedai, and then give her to him."  
  
"Um," Sam says, because while he may not know all the names of all the demons in hell, he's fairly certain that giving a little girl to any demon is a very, very bad thing. "When you say... when you say 'give her to him', you mean like, as a snack... or... what?"  
  
"Ashmedai is known for many things," Castiel admits, frowning. "I think it best that we find Claire and stop the ceremony before they raise the demon."  
  
"Thanks," Amelia says, ironic but not sarcastic. "I'm with the angel on this one, hon, so why don't you figure out how we're stopping these guys and get to it?"  
  
Sam sighs, but he can't help but think that he's going to be bossed around like this for the rest of his life. He's not sure, at this point, that he really minds. It kind of reminds him of growing up with Dean.  
  
\--  
  
Their plan officially sucks. It doesn't have any finesse, any sort of logic or actual planning. When it comes to surprise twists and turns, the plan is officially lacking. If Sam were to name this plan, he would probably name it the Let's Make Shit Up As We Go Plan, which is quite possibly the second-worst plan he's ever taken part in.  
  
(The worst one was the _Doing Stupid Shit To Piss Off Dad Plan_ , which went surprisingly well, although perhaps he should have redefined the mission objectives and never actually gone through with it. The problem with that plan, of course, had been that it actually _worked_.)  
  
"This is not a plan," he says, and the sad puppy-eyed look he receives in turn makes him want to pull out his own hair. Castiel, apparently, is not only an Angel of the Lord, he also somehow manages to look like a kicked puppy every time someone disagrees with him, and to make things awkward and weird, he sometimes forgets to refer to Claire as 'the girl-child' and gives himself away by calling her Claire.  
  
Even worse was the time that Amelia had slipped and called her 'our daughter' when looking at Castiel.  
  
"We have to rescue her," Castiel says firmly. "And there is not much time. The ritual to summon the demon is not a complicated one, therefore it is in our best bet to interfere before the demon has risen. And the girl will not yet be hurt."  
  
"Can you be sure of that?" Sam practically shouts.  
  
Instead of answering, the angel turns his wide blue eyes towards Sam. They glisten, like sparkling diamonds or stars in the night sky or, terrifyingly, like Castiel is on the verge of tears. "I do not want anything to happen to her," Castiel says, and Sam suddenly understands why Dean wanted to punch him in the face every time Sam used the sad-eyed face on him.  
  
How the hell anybody had suffered through eighteen years of Sam making sad kicked-puppy expressions every time he wanted to guilt them into something says a lot about Dean's relative patience.  
  
"We're going to do this, then," Sam says, resigned to his fate. "We'll just... wing it."  
  
Nodding enthusiastically, Castiel seems almost relieved. "I have a great facility when utilizing my wings," he admits, shyly.  
  
Amelia and Sam both stare at him.  
  
"Right," Sam decides. "Amelia, you shoot anything that isn't your daughter. Um, unless it's me. Cas, try and exorcise anyone you can, and if you can't, holding them in place with your brain is a good idea. I'm going to..."  
  
He's going to draw a _really freaking big_ devil's trap on the floor, is what he's going to do. And then Sam is going to figure out how to fight demons without Ruby's demon-killing knife, without drinking them first, and without... well, actually, a real Latin exorcism might not be a bad idea.  
  
"Huh," he says. Maybe this isn't a totally shitty plan, after all.  
  
\--  
  
Teleporting with a hangover isn't fun.  
  
Sam stumbles to the side of the clearing and vomits as politely as he can, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve once he's finished. "Ew," he says, and mentally apologizes to himself for the hangover and the horrific lurch of being in another time zone with no warning.  
  
"We have an hour," Castiel says, grimly. "Let's get to work."  
  
\--  
  
Because the famous Winchester luck is in effect, the plan effectively goes to shit the minute the demons arrive.  
  
The demons arrive twenty minutes before Castiel had expected, which means the Devil's trap hasn't been finished and the three of them are caught with their metaphorical pants down. If he lives through this, Sam decides, he is going to submit this story to Fmylife.com, because seriously? What the fuck.  
  
"Hello, boys," a dark-haired demoness purrs, holding onto Claire by her throat. "Long time no see," and when she smiles, her mouth has far too many teeth. Her eyes flicker black, briefly.  
  
"Christo," Sam says, politely.  
  
The demons flinch, and then suddenly there's fighting. One of the demons leaps at Sam's neck, and he throws himself to the side, landing in an undignified sprawl and kicking it off of him. There's a quick scuffle over his shotgun, and then Sam gets a good grip on the demon's neck, slamming its head onto the ground twice in succession and dropping the limp body onto the ground.  
  
Amelia is holding onto her gun, staring steely-eyed at the demon bitch holding her little girl. "Let her go," she says, and when the demoness just tips her head back and laughs, Amelia stills.  
  
"Baby," she says, eyes flashing with something dark and dangerous. "Get down."  
  
The next part goes in slow motion. Claire goes limp, all of her weight dragging the demon's arms down with the sudden dead weight of a thirteen-year-old girl. At the same time, Amelia fires, which is a thousand different kinds of ludicrous and Sam watches, mouth gaping, as Amelia blows the bitch's ear off.  
  
Claire ducks and runs, kicking and scratching at the hands that try to restrain her, and Amelia fires again --  
  
Sam tackles another demon, pulling out his flask (it used to be Dean's but it's his, now) and splashing the contents liberally over the demon's face. Its eyes go black, hissing and spitting at him, but the holy water does its job. " _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus--_ " he grinds out, and the demon apparently doesn't have any more fight left in it, because the woman's head tilts back and she screams, black smoke spewing from her mouth and spiralling upwards.  
  
He hasn't seen Castiel in the minute or so since this started, and then suddenly the angel is there, standing in the midst of the horde of demons, and with Castiel comes thunder and lightning and the whole room going dark as if a cloud had just covered the sun.  
  
Castiel is _pissed_.  
  
"Hello," the first demoness says, blood dripping down her ear. "How are you, Castiel? You're looking well."  
  
He doesn't look impressed with her, and it seems a measured insult when he turns his back on her, looking at Sam instead and asking, "Are you injured?"  
  
"I'm fine," Sam says, and aside from some bruises and a split lip, he actually is.  
  
Castiel turns his eyes back to the demons, and he's practically glowing. Sam's eyes are watering, just looking at him. "Hello, Meg," Castiel says, and _oh boy_ does he sound angry. "I regret that I could not kill you the last time we met."  
  
"Lookin' good, buttercup," she replies, lips twitching into a smile. Her teeth are covered in blood.  
  
Striding forward, Castiel grabs her by her shirt collar, lifting her up into the air with one hand. He doesn't even look like he's trying, and when Sam looks around he realizes that none of the other demons are moving, they're all -- stuck, like that freaky Grand Central Station practical joke, or something.  
  
Claire is curled up at her mom's side, half-behind her, and Amelia still has her shotgun up, aiming at the demons closest to her.  
  
Sam has a sneaking suspicion that Castiel is holding all the demons in place with his mind, which is kind of the most awesome thing in the world.  
  
"You should complete the devil's trap," Castiel says, turning to Sam. He's still holding Meg up by her throat, which makes a weird, surreal picture.  
  
"Yeah," Sam agrees, standing up slowly and grabbing his knife.  
  
The wooden floor is just old enough that carving the sigils isn't as difficult as it should be, and Sam quickly scrambles to the small patch of uncarved floor. It's a shame to fuck with real hardwood, but it's even more of a shame to have demons hanging around.  
  
Claire scrambles out of the circle, carefully avoiding any of the demons, and when she's outside she kneels on the floor about six feet away from Sam. Then, she carefully tucks her matted, filthy blond hair behind her ears, presses her hands together, and closes her eyes.  
  
"Our Father," she whispers, her voice hoarse. "... Who art in heaven -- hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven..."  
  
\--  
  
After that, it's a relatively easy thing to exorcise the demons and send them screaming back to hell.  
  
All except Meg, who is still in the middle of the trap, grinning her bloody smile at Castiel as she dangles in his grip. "Still can't just send me away, can you, darling?" she murmurs.  
  
"I don't want to send you back to hell," Castiel says grimly. "You and I have unfinished business, don't we, Megara?"  
  
"Don't call me that," she spits.  
  
"Perhaps you should have remembered our last encounter," Castiel replies, tilting his head at her. "You should have hidden in the deepest, darkest, dankest hole that you could find, you pathetic, miserable bitch. Because now that you've interfered in my life, with my family -- I'm afraid that Hell is not where you are going."  
  
There's a sickening smell, like charred flesh, and Sam can see the blackened areas around where Castiel's fingers are digging into her skin. Meg screams, a soft choked-out sound, and Castiel just tightens his fingers. She glows, not the normal red-orange light of a demon being burnt out of it's host, but something brighter, and Meg screams again and again and _again_ \--  
  
And then she's limp and being dropped unceremoniously to the floor, her host gasping in pained breaths. Turning abruptly, Castiel walks away, trench coat swirling behind him as if flapping in the nonexistent breeze created entirely by the amount of badass he just personified.  
  
Sam kind of wants to hug something. Because that was kind of awesome.  
  
"Claire," Castiel says, kneeling in front of her. "Are you harmed?"  
  
She opens her eyes, and Sam can see that she's clearly been roughed up a bit. She's got bruises showing on her neck and arms, and probably a lot more that he can't see. Her hair is matted with sweat and what looks like blood and mud, and at least half of her nails are bleeding or covered in blood. Her sleeve is torn, and she's not wearing any shoes, but she smiles at him and it doesn't seem forced.  
  
"I'm fine," Claire says, and then she leans forward and wraps her arms around him. Castiel stiffens, his shoulders making a stiff harsh line underneath his coat. It takes a long, uncomfortable moment with Claire clinging to him like a clinging to him like a lifeline, before Castiel finally hugs her back, his arms hesitant as he wraps them around her back.  
  
It's adorable and cute and _heartbreaking_ , because Sam finally sees what Amelia and Claire see when they look at the angel.  
  
They see Jimmy Novak.  
  
\--  
  
"But you'll come back, right?" Claire asks, climbing the stairs of the porch with Amelia's hand in hers. "Soon?"  
  
Castiel stands at the bottom of the steps. Sam is scuffing his feet on the sidewalk a few feet back, trying his best to act invisible. The look that Amelia gives Castiel could be a warning, or it might be curiosity, but Castiel isn't looking at Amelia.  
  
"Yes, Claire," He says, and he's using his Serious Angel Business tone, as well. "I will return. Please... Take care of your mother until then."  
  
She grins and nods, wrapping her arms around Amelia's waist.  
  
Castiel walks away without a backward glance.  
  
\--  
  
Cas drops Sam off at the motel room, prompting a mad dash for the toilet and another bout of vomiting. Standing in the middle of the main room, Castiel stares impassively at the cartoons still playing on the television while Sam retches. He doesn't make any move to help, which is a relief.  
  
On the bright side, his hangover has finally started to fade. Sam brushes his teeth quickly, chugging down as much Gatorade as he can handle afterward and wincing at the taste. "You alright?" he asks.  
  
Cas turns and looks at him, giving him the full-on head-tilty angel stare.  
  
Uncomfortable, Sam shifts his weight back and forth and tries not to feel like Castiel is staring at his _soul_.  
  
"Yes," Castiel says, finally, after a short eternity of tense and uncomfortable silence. "I am fine." He shrugs off his trench coat and drops it, unceremoniously, onto the chair by the door. This is followed by his suit jacket, and then he strips off his tie.  
  
"Good," Sam says, running his hands through his hair. He's exhausted, muscles aching all over, and he's debating the merits of flopping onto his bed versus hopping in the shower when Castiel reaches forward, grabbing onto Sam's shirt and pulling him towards him. "Um," Sam says, because he's good with words.  
  
Castiel gives him a look, the same kind of _Seriously, What is Wrong With Your Idiotic Human Brain_ look that Sam's gotten on a hundred thousand different occasions. Occasions that did not in any way precede Castiel shoving him backward to sprawl haphazardly over the bed. And Castiel also hadn't crawled into his lap before; that was also new.  
  
"What are you--"  
  
"No talking," Castiel snaps, and then they're kissing, a soft brush of the angel's lips over Sam's.  
  
Sam makes tiny helpless noises against Castiel's mouth, conscious of the fact that this hadn't gone so well the last time -- but Castiel's lips are fucking soft and warm and a little bit chapped, and he's a really, _really_ good kisser. So it's easier than it should be, to just lie back and accept it, open his mouth and revel in the sweet warm taste of Castiel's mouth.  
  
"Mmm," Sam mumbles, and when Castiel pulls back for a breath. "Cas, what're you..."  
  
Stopping his words with a hand, Castiel looks down at Sam, studies him intently. "I intend to have sex with you, Sam," he says.  
  
Okay, that wasn't really what Sam had expected.  
  
"You should take off your clothes now," Castiel adds. He sits up, keeping his hand over Sam's mouth until the last possible moment. Sam's only half-on the bed, his legs dangling off the edge and Castiel's thighs trapping him in place. He could probably get away, if he really tried, except Castiel is stripping off his own shirt with practiced deliberation and Sam really doesn't _want_ to escape.  
  
He's lean and slim and his hands are warm when he leans back down, tugging the hem of Sam's t-shirt up. Closing his eyes, Sam lets Castiel take off his shirt, enjoys the feeling of hands on his bare skin. "Cas," he sighs, "I'm way too tired for this."  
  
Cas nips at Sam's bottom lip, teeth tugging gently before he licks into Sam's mouth, hot and dirty and just the right kind of wet. He kisses like he knows what he's doing, like he knows every single possible way to drive Sam wild, fingers tangling in Sam's hair, the other one shoved up underneath his t-shirt, open palm splayed over his heart.  
  
"How?" Castiel asks him. His mouth is still pressed against Sam's skin, so it takes Sam a second to realize that Cas has said anything at all.  
  
"Cas?"  
  
He bites down on Sam's shoulder and Sam strains against him. "How can you be tired? Don't you feel alive?" Castiel trails his lips across Sam's jaw.  
  
Sam's brain short circuits a little and he presses his hands into Castiel's shoulders. "Cas--"  
  
Castiel pulls away abruptly and Sam closes his hand around Castiel's wrist to stop him from leaving. "Yeah," he breathes. "I know what you mean. I'm just exhausted." He leans forward, pressing their mouths together. "Stay," he asks, ignoring the plaintive tone in his own voice. "If you want to. I mean, if you want to, I want you to too. Um--"  
  
"Samuel," Castiel snaps, almost angrily, "Shut up and _take off your clothes_."  
  
"I'm not doing all the work," Sam replies, shoving his pants down to his knees and letting Castiel yank them off. "You'd better be-- participating-- and--"  
  
Castiel kisses him again, bites down on his lip and then slaps a hand down over Sam's mouth. "No more talking," he orders, using his free hand to get Sam out of his boxers.  
  
"Okay, fine," Sam grumbles against Castiel's hand, yanking his wrist away so Sam can flip them over, pinning Castiel to the bed.  
  
They strip out of the remnants of their clothes quickly, Castiel shoving impatiently when Sam lingers too long dragging his fingers over the curve of Castiel's thigh instead of taking his pants off. And then they're naked, naked and kissing which is probably the best idea in the world, Sam decides.  
  
Cas is strong enough to flip them over whenever he wants to, but he seems to like Sam on top of him. He likes pulling on Sam's hair and slow, dragging kisses, fucking Sam's mouth with his tongue.  
  
" _Jesus_ , Cas," Sam groans when Castiel grinds up against him, and Castiel pauses to glare at Sam.  
  
"Don't blaspheme," Castiel admonishes him, punctuating this with a filthily pornographic roll of his hips and a sharp nip of his teeth in Sam's shoulder.  
  
"Yeah, sorry," Sam mouths against the line of Castiel's neck, scraping his teeth against the tendons and liking the way Castiel shudders when he does. "Won't happen again, fuck, yeah, do that again--"  
  
Cas shoves until they're lying on their sides, fitting his mouth over Sam's and licking his bottom lip. He gets a hand around Sam's cock and Sam loses time shuddering and moaning into Castiel's mouth, hips jerking into every slow, teasing pull. Cas swallows all the noises Sam makes, bites at his lips and his throat, his other hand twisted into Sam's hair so he can control him.  
  
It's not something Sam's ever thought about before, being in control, but it's so fucking obvious here that Cas is the one with all the cards. He can feel himself getting harder just thinking about it, Cas' thumb sliding over the precome leaking from his cock, and Cas pulls back from the kiss, stares down at Sam with his freaky angel eyes.  
  
"Oh shit, oh shit, Cas--" Sam closes his eyes and tries not to come, even though his hips are snapping up desperately into Castiel's hand, and he can feel it, building at the base of his spine. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," he groans, and then Castiel's hand is gone and Sam can't restrain his whine of protest.  
  
"Cas," he groans, opening his eyes. "Where are you--"  
  
Castiel slides down the bed, pressing Sam's hips down as he leans forward. Sam slams his eyes shut again, because he's fairly certain that if he watches Cas go down on him, he's going to come in about four seconds. Having his eyes closed doesn't dull the sensation of Castiel's lips closing around his cock, doesn't at all diminish the amazing, ruthless _heat_.  
  
"Oh fuck," Sam hisses, arching up. He can't stop his hips from jerking forward, can't help moaning at the hot, sweet slide as Cas just takes it, lets Sam fuck all the way into his mouth, until he can feel his throat muscles contracting around the head of his cock. Castiel hums, vibrations wrenching another groan from Sam.  
  
He can't remember how his hand got into Castiel's hair, can't remember anything except for this, the irresistible slide into his mouth, hips pushing in slow and easy. "Oh my fucking god," Sam gasps, and then Castiel pulls off with a depraved wet noise.  
  
When Sam opens his eyes, he realizes that the angel is glaring at him. "Wha--?" Sam mumbles, and Castiel wraps his hand around the base of Sam's cock, his eyes staring unrelentingly into his soul.  
  
"Don't blaspheme," Castiel reminds him, gently, while he works Sam's cock with one hand, a slow twist near the head that's got Sam swearing and making low, needy noises at the back of his throat.  
  
"Sorry," Sam says desperately. "Sorry, Cas, I'm sorry, won't do it again I won't..."  
  
"Be sure you don't," Castiel replies, and then he bends down and sucks Sam's cock back into his mouth.  
  
Sam bites his lip, hips snapping up. He's got two fistfuls of Castiel's hair, cock sliding in and out of Castiel's mouth. It's fucking obscene, the stretch of Castiel's lips around him, the way Cas just takes it, like it's easy, like there's nothing in the world he'd rather do than swallow around Sam's dick.  
  
Thrusting raggedly, Sam tries to warn Cas, tries to say something other than Ohfuckyes, casyescas, or the every-present yeahsuckitohyeah hovering at the back of his mind, but it's too late, he's coming in Castiel's mouth.  
  
"Oh fuck," Sam says, barely conscious of the fact that he's bitten his lip bloody.  
  
Castiel swallows, wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. "Don't fall asleep," he tells Sam. "We're not finished yet."  
  
\--  
  
Angels don't dream, but humans do. When Castiel closes his eyes, he finds himself in Jimmy Novak's nightmares. He spends a minute staring at Amelia's bloody corpse, at the demons who are pulling Claire away from Jimmy. Claire cries, screams "Daddy, daddy -- help me--"  
  
Castiel waves a hand, and the entire scene melts away.  
  
Now Claire is sitting on a swing, laughing as Jimmy pushes her. "Higher!" she shrieks in delight. "Higher, daddy!"  
  
Amelia is on the swing next to Claire, her hair streaming behind her as she swings back and forth. Castiel waits for a moment, listens to the Novaks' laughter in Jimmy's dream. He stays long enough to ensure that the nightmare won't return.  
  
It's the least he can do, for Jimmy.  
  
\--  
  
Castiel licks ice cream obscenely from his spoon, looking contemplative. Sam pretends not to notice that Cas is fellating a spoon across the table from him, and instead tries to concentrate on typing on his laptop.  
  
"I liked it," Castiel says, and Sam's head snaps back up. Cas licks the spoon again.  
  
"Yeah?" Sam says, his voice dropping half an octave just because he's watching Castiel's tongue sliding over the cold metal, the angel's eyes going half-lidded as he hums around his mouth full of ice cream.  
  
"Yes," Castiel nods. "I enjoyed having a purpose."  
  
For a minute, Sam's not sure what the fuck Cas is talking about, because his brain is stuck on Cas, mouth, tongue -- and then he takes a deep breath and tries to concentrate. "You liked... what... hunting?"  
  
"When we... when Claire was safe," Castiel admits. "I was... happy. She hugged me," he says pointedly.  
  
"I know, Cas, I was there," Sam grins at him.  
  
"It was good to have something to do, something to -- I mattered," Castiel continues. "I saved her. We saved her, and that was..."  
  
"Yeah," Sam agrees. "It feels good."  
  
He hadn't ever considered it before, but now -- it makes sense, actually, to keep hunting. Dean called it 'the family business', hunting things and saving people, but Sam had never really had the choice.  
  
He wanted to settle down, get a place to live, get his life back... except he had a life, and Dean was dead, and Dad was dead, and Jess was dead, and Bobby was alive, but probably didn't want him around -- his life was never going to be the same again, he wasn't going to get 'normal' back. Not to mention that in the post-apocalyptic world, where Demons and Angels had walked in plain sight, where the dead had come back to life to feed on the flesh of the living, where fire had rained down from the sky and set the city of Los Angeles on fire... normal wasn't something anybody pretended was real. It was a myth, like vampires, except vampires were real.  
  
"We could go on the road," Sam suggests. "We've got enough supplies to last us a while. I could find us a hunt."  
  
Castiel makes muffled moaning noises around his ice cream, nodding in agreement.  
  
"We could get a car, or something bigger like an SUV," Sam suggests. "Maybe a hybrid, get it in black and tint the windows..."  
  
Castiel raises his eyebrow meaningfully, and the meaning behind this particular look is You Are A Moron. "No," he says. "I do not know how to drive, and we have the Impala."  
  
"The Impala is a gas-guzzling monster," Sam explains patiently.  
  
"It's Dean's car."  
  
"It's your car, now."  
  
"I don't know how to drive."  
  
"I'll teach you," Sam is determined not to lose this argument.  
  
"If I keep the Impala, you are going to buy another car," Castiel says, eyebrows tilted down in concern.  
  
"Uh..."  
  
"A Hybrid," Castiel adds, disdain dripping from his tone and spilling all over the diner tabletop.  
  
"We'll wait on that for a while," Sam suggests. "Like until you're comfortable with the Impala."  
  
He isn't even sure why he decided to give it to Cas. It just seemed right, somehow, like Dean would want his baby to be with someone who would love her and take care of her and for fuck's sake, Sam was still calling the damn thing she like a real person instead of a car. That was probably why the Impala was better off with Castiel.  
  
"Okay," Cas agrees, hesitantly.  
  
"So. We're good?"  
  
"We are good."  
  
"And we're going to be partners. Hunting partners," Sam adds.  
  
Castiel finishes his ice cream and proceeds to lick every single one of his fingers clean. "Yes," he agrees. "Hunting partners."  
  
\--  
  
Their first official hunt is a restless spirit in Maine. There's a fuck-tiny town called Freedom, and Sam spends two days interviewing people and pretending to be a Federal Marshall while Castiel mostly babysat for Mrs. Briggs, who had a bad hip and needed someone to look after her grandson.  
  
"Did you manage to find anything out about this so-called phantom?" Sam asks.  
  
Castiel turns his wide blue eyes on Sam. "Six year old children have an overabundance of energy," he says, instead of answering the damn question.  
  
"You spent all day chasing after a rugrat and didn't even do any research."  
  
"I was tired," Castiel says plaintively. "I took a nap. And then I helped Mrs. Briggs clean the gutters on her house, and then Ms. Johnson across the road needed someone to help her move furniture."  
  
So after Sam does all the research, interviews all their witnesses, and treks out to the middle of the god damned woods to find the unmarked grave of a woman brutally murdered fifty years earlier, he makes Castiel dig up the corpse.  
  
It takes a surprisingly long time.  
  
"Is this really necessary?" Castiel asks, for the hundredth time.  
  
"Yes," Sam lies. "If you use your angel powers, it will disturb the spirit, and we won't be able to destroy the bones properly."  
  
Nodding as if Sam's bullshit explanation made sense, Castiel digs another shovelful of wet, clinging mud. The weather had quickly turned from overcast to a steady drizzle, and is starting to resemble real rain now. Castiel's probably standing ankle-deep in watery mud that he's also trying to scoop up, and he's damp all over and smeared with dirt. Sam kind of likes it, even though he wouldn't admit it out loud.  
  
"You better hurry up, Cas," he calls. "I've got a feeling that those wards of yours aren't going to keep the unhappy spirit at bay much longer." His thermos of hot chocolate is starting to cool down, so Sam sips a little faster, enjoying the heat and Castiel's petulant misery.  
  
It takes Cas several hours to finally dig the six-and-a-half feet down to where the unnamed woman who's been haunting the town for the past five decades. And then he tries to sort through and sift the mud, searching out the scattered bones.  
  
Cas takes a twenty-minute break to reinforce the wards, because the angry spirit is railing at them, phantom-blood trailing down her fingers and smearing the sigils wherever she's touched them.  
  
"Fucking psychos," Sam mutters, now finished his hot chocolate. He jumps into the hole to help, because even though they've got most of her torso piled up at the edge of the grave, they're still looking for her right leg (as well as all the kajillion tiny bones in her feet) and half of her ribcage. "Why couldn't they have buried her in a box or a tarp or something? They've got no respect for the dead, none."  
  
Cas carefully scoops the wet, freezing cold mud into his fingers, carefully seeking out any remnants of bone that might be left. "We are currently desecrating her grave in order to inflict more damage upon her corpse," he says without inflection. "Does that not fall under the same categories of lack of respect?" He doesn't sound accusing, only kind of curious in his weird Cas-way.  
  
Sam takes a moment to think about it, picking out dead leaves and a couple of teeth and dropping them into the appropriate piles. "Not really, I mean... it sucks that we have to do this, but we're trying to save lives, lay her spirit to rest. It's not the same thing as killing someone in cold blood and then just dumping her without even a proper grave. They didn't respect her as a person, and then had less respect for her body. We're just fixing their mistakes."  
  
Castiel nods, as if philosophical discussion is part of his everyday grave digging experience. "I am not sure if I agree," he replies, wiping rain from his eyes and replacing the dripping water with a smear of dirt. "Surely, if we mean to respect her, then we ought to bury her properly instead of simply salting and burning her bones." He frowns, picks up a larger bone, a tibia or fibula, and adds it to the pile. "Have you found her femur?"  
  
"Nah, still looking," Sam groans, scooping up more mud. He finds the missing half of her ribcage, which breaks in his hands. "Gross," he grimaces, and then adds it to the growing pile.  
  
It takes another hour until Castiel declares the remains complete, and then he uses his angel-magic to dry them so that they'll burn quickly with the addition of some butane and a hefty amount of salt.  
  
"Let's get out of here," Sam says, crawling out of the grave.  
  
Castiel gives him a dirty look, which is doubly hilarious because Castiel is absolutely filthy, covered head to toe in mud and smeared everywhere including his hair. He looks like the loser in a mud-wrestling match, and it doesn't really matter that his jacket and trench are still clean and in the car.  
  
"We should bury her," Castiel argues.  
  
It's cold and raining and they're both muddy as all hell, and Sam wants to punch Cas in the face, take a hot shower, and then sleep for a week.  
  
"Fine," Sam grumbles, and then he stomps over to the car to find a tarp that they can bury her in.  
  
\--  
  
Time moves differently in hell.  
  
Dean feels his arms and legs stretching, stretching just a fraction of an inch at a time. It has been a long time (an eternity, perhaps?) since this happened last, but it doesn't matter. The pain is new, every time, just as shocking as the first time a black-eyed soul had leaned over him with a hungry smile and a knife clasped tightly in a bleeding fist. He hadn't forgotten, not hell or this kind of pain. His ankles, his elbows, hips, spine, shoulders -- every joint in his body it seems -- screams and pops and _twists_. Bone scrapes on bone in his sockets, muscles stretch out tighten with a feeling like fire and Dean feels every inch of it.  
  
Screaming doesn't help, but he does it anyway. He screams for Sam, for his dad, for Castiel when he can remember the angel's name.  
  
They stretch him out further, until his arms and legs are pulled from their sockets, until he can feel the flesh tearing, giving way, the pressure too much to bear. Dean screams as they tear him apart, slowly, inch by inch. He screams when his arms are torn off, when blood wells up in the shattered stumps. Pain like fire laces through him when the same happens to his legs, and the demons surrounding him dip curious fingers in the spurting blood, tugging at arteries and veins like kittens playing with shoestrings.  
  
He's surrounded by manic, giggling insanity, the chaos of thousands of years worth of tortured souls. And amongst the pain and fire and seething black smoke, where the only sounds are screams and laughter and tears, the chaos grows wilder and more unmanageable as hell falls to pieces.  
  
Dean screams until he can taste blood and bile in his throat. His voice gives out eventually, but no one comes for him.  
  


  


illustration by [](http://sleepwalker1015.livejournal.com/profile)[**sleepwalker1015**](http://sleepwalker1015.livejournal.com/)  
\--  


  


Castiel feels edgy, restless. His body has too much energy, and he can feel the slight pull of Jimmy's soul inside of it, tugging him towards Illinois and the two females he is linked to. It's almost a relief, because Jimmy's presence has been faint until now, and even this small reminder is a reassurance that Castiel is not alone. Not really.

He wants to visit the girl-child.

Castiel has tried to learn what it is to want, but he is not very good at it. Things are pleasant or unpleasant, there are things that he likes and dislikes. People whose company he seeks above others. But wanting, that is still strange for him, because he has spent so much of his life having things, or being unable to have them.

This is new and strange, because it is something he does not have, and something he wants to have, and something he can have all at once. He can visit Claire Novak any time he so desires, he can appear to her with but a thought. He can step into her dreams, or remain invisible and watch her.

He does none of these things, because he is not sure that he would be welcome, even now.

In the year 2072, the Gospel of Winchester has been published several times, in several languages. Castiel steps into that year, walks into a used book store and seeks out a complete boxed set, detailing the three years of the Winchesters' fight against heaven and hell.

The boxed set is not very heavy.

For the sake of curiosity, and nothing else, he opens the front page of the book entitled _Lazarus Rising_ and catches sight of the dedication, written by the prophet Chuck Shurley. The book is dedicated to James Novak, Dean Winchester, and Samuel Winchester.

Underneath is his own handwriting, blue ink that is slightly smudged and still legible.

It reads: **To Claire. So that you will understand your father's sacrifice. Castiel.**

He closes the book, glares at the cover, and places it back in its proper spot.

The book set says that it was published in 2060. Castiel leaves the store, stepping into the year 2060 and walking into another store. He buys a brand-new box set of the Winchester Gospel, one of the few paper books available on the shelves.

He writes the dedication in black ink. There is no way of knowing whether it will fade to blue over time, or if he has changed the future.

Either way, Claire smiles at him when he gives her the unwrapped gift, and Castiel feels something inside of him shift and change.

Jimmy's presence fades away a little bit more, but Castiel doesn't mind.

\--

"Hey, little brother!"

Castiel turns, slowly, and Gabriel grins up at him from his position sprawled on the floor. "What are you doing?" Castiel asks.

"I am drinking," Gabriel responds cheerfully. His smile grows wider as he holds up a bottle of what was probably wine. "Got a buddy who hooked me up, name's... Bach or something. I like his wine, its stronger than that weak stuff the mortals drink." He takes another, hearty sip, and then offers the bottle to Castiel.

"You're drunk," Castiel says.

"Mmm, I've always admired you ability to state the obvious," Gabriel says, licking his lips. He stands, unsteadily, holding onto the wall for assistance. "You've got a real talent there, bro."

"Bro," Castiel repeats, taking a step away from Gabriel. He looks around the room, expecting to see Gabriel's usual excessive splendour. Gabriel seems to have opted for a rustic mountain cabin instead, which is... surprising, to say the last.

He is not accustomed to seeing his brothers and sister intoxicated, as it is not within the bounds of their normal existence. Gabriel has insisted on becoming _other_ though, pagan influences leaking into his very being, and this makes him more prone to human excess. Castiel watches him for a moment with his true sight, sees the expanse of Gabriel's wings and the long dark lines over his soul and around his grace, darkness and pain that Castiel cannot fathom.

"What is wrong?" Castiel asks.

Gabriel frowns at him. "You should drink with me," he says, waving a hand and sitting abruptly in one of the chairs that appears without so much as a flash of multicoloured smoke.

If Gabriel is no longer acting like a crazed showboating clown, Castiel feels that something must be truly wrong with him. He tries to suppress the surge of concern on instinct, and then he remembers that he is no longer one of Heaven's soldiers. He is allowed to feel emotion, and his concern for his brother returns immediately. "I do not require drink," Castiel reminds Gabriel.

His brother nods, snaps his fingers and pointing at the cups on the table that wasn't there before. "You should, though," he insists, propping his feet up on an ottoman that pops into existence just as suddenly. "I mean, you need to loosen up. You're way too uptight, Cassie."

"My name is Castiel," he chides softly, but he sits down across from Gabriel.

"Whadda you want? I've got tequila," Gabriel says, cheering up when it seems that Castiel is going to stay for a while and allow himself to be corrupted.

"No, thank you," Castiel says, and then he decides that he will have a drink after all. "I would like a beer. An El Sol."

"You're kinda boring for a rebel, y'know that?" Gabriel says, but the beer appears on the table anyway, cap off and cold droplets already condensing on the outside of the glass bottle. "So tell me, little brother, what have you been up to? Still fighting the good fight? Still doing all that exciting, world-saving stuff?"

"I suppose," Castiel says, fiddling with the label on his beer. "I have been staying with Sam."

Gabriel grins, takes a large swig from his bottle. "Yup, Sammy Winchester, the last survivor of the Winchester clan. Must be exciting times for you, bro."

"You're drunk, Gabriel." Castiel says, sipping his beer carefully. "You are drunk, and you are not even attempting to sober yourself. What has happened? Why are you so--"

"Don't you know?" Gabriel snaps. "Are you so far-fallen that you can't tell, _Castiel_?"

"You have no reason to be like this," Castiel says, even though he's not really certain of that at all.

"Do you even remember what it was like? Before he fell, I mean? Do you remember what it was like when he was simply our brother?"

"I do not."

"That's why," Gabriel says, pointing his bottle of wine at Castiel accusingly. "That's why you can be okay with this, that's why you can be all 'happy-go-lucky let's end the apocalypse', but I remember, Cas. I remember when he was my brother, and you helped to kill him. And even if it needed to be done, my brother is dead and nobody will mourn him but me."

Castiel turns his eyes to the table, drags a finger through a droplet of water that slid down his beer bottle. He can see, when he looks at Gabriel, the lines of sadness and grief, lines that do not touch Castiel at all. "Lucifer was not our brother," he says, but the words catch in his throat.

"No," Gabriel says sadly. "He wasn't." He takes a large mouthful of wine, swallowing audibly. "Not when you killed him, at least," he adds.

"I'm sorry," Castiel says, because he is, he is sorry for every single one of the angels he has murdered, every single one of his brethren whose lives he has ended. Lucifer was not one of the heavenly host, but he was-- he had been an angel.

"You really are," Gabriel laughs, a sad and bitter laugh. "Oh, that's just great. It figures," he tilts his head back and stares at the ceiling. "It's like trying to stay mad at a puppy," he mumbles.

"I'm sorry," Castiel says again.

Another mouthful of wine, and then Gabriel is standing up, shoving the chair back with a loud scrape against the wooden floor. He plants one knee on the table in front of them, then another, until he's kneeling on the table and looking down at Castiel. He wraps one hand around the back of Castiel's head, fingers soft on his hair, and then he presses his mouth against Castiel's, a soft insistent press of lips.

Castiel opens his mouth because that's what Gabriel wants, and then he swallows the sweet, intoxicating wine that rushes from Gabriel's mouth to his, an onslaught of heat and dizzy and light-headedness that is shockingly powerful.

"This is not mortal wine," he says, when Gabriel pulls back.

Gabriel's free hand is still holding onto the neck of the bottle, and he grins sloppily down at Cas, swinging his legs around so that he's sitting on the table properly, legs dangling on either side of Castiel. "Of course not," he feigns insult, but he offers Castiel the bottle again anyway.

He puts the beer bottle down onto the table beside Gabriel's thigh, takes the wine bottle hesitantly. His second sip is just as electric, the wine sweet in his mouth like ambrosia. "Bacchus," he says, looking up at Gabriel in surprise. "You obtained this wine from Bacchus."

"He's a good guy, likes a party, doesn't require human sacrifice." Gabriel nods. "You try and hunt him, I'm gonna be pissed. He might occasionally make people go insane ... rip each other to shreds, but that's on them, not on him. He makes awesome booze, too," and with that he steals the bottle back from Castiel, taking another large gulp.

Castiel can feel the wine's effects, feel his head feel thick and slow even as his limbs are warm and comfortable, tingling almost. He is not quite sure the sensation is unpleasant, it does not seem to be destroying his sensibilities as thoroughly as he has seen mortal alcohol affect humans.

"Want some more?" Gabriel offers.

"No, thank you."

Nodding, Gabriel takes that opportunity to slide off of the table and into Castiel's lap, curling around him like a cat. He takes another sip of wine, wrapping both arms around Castiel and sighing deeply. "I miss him," Gabriel says, his voice very nearly muffled by Castiel's shoulder. "I miss him all the time, him and Michael and all the others. Do you know, I can still hear them? They won't let me leave, Cas."

There are tears, wet against Castiel's shirt, and he's not sure he knows what to do. He takes the bottle of wine from Gabriel's unresisting fingers, places it gently on the floor as Gabriel cries silently. "I'm sorry," he says, not knowing what else to do.

"I just want to leave and never come back," Gabriel cries. "I want to, but no matter how far I go I can always hear their voices, calling me to come home, calling to me -- and to each other, it hurts me, Cas." He lifts himself up, a little, enough to stare into Castiel's eyes. Gabriel leaves the tracks of his tears where they are, lets Castiel see this vulnerable aching part of him, the wet spiky lashes around his eyes. "They're not my family any more, Cas. I can't stand to go back."

"It's okay," Castiel says, finally placing his arms around his brother, drawing him in closer. "I am here for you, Gabriel. You don't have to go back," and Gabriel nods, rests his head against Castiel's shoulder again.

"You should try cheesecake," Gabriel says, after a long moment. "It's really good. Better than pie."

Castiel laughs.

\--

Time moves differently in hell.

There's a tremble and a whisper, far away from where Dean lies bloody and sobbing, blood bubbling under his lips as he cries tears that sting as they slide down the sensitive, raw flesh of his face. He knows that he doesn't need to breathe down here, but his lungs still struggle for every breath as if it's his last. He struggles to breathe while the whisper travels through the ranks, from high-level demons to the low-level imps.

It sounds like the cruellest, most bitter laugh in existence, something deeper and darker than the sounds of hell had ever seen before.

Lucifer is dead, the whisper says.

Lucifer is dead.

The whisper travels, and behind it there is a tremble of gleeful ecstasy, of demons no longer trapped within the too-tight confines of fire and brimstone. And behind that tremble of hesitant freedom there is a sick, insidious shock wave of treachery and lies and manipulation.

Time moves differently in hell, and only now do the demons realize that their leader is gone.

Dean lies on the rack with his ribs spread open, his insides exposed and raw, bleeding over the rack and slicking it up with his blood and pain. He hears the whispers and he hates them, hates that the demons around him have hope and freedom, that they can revel in their happiness but he is still nothing but a sad, sorry mess.

The demon working him over has black eyes, happy black eyes that glitter with triumph with every tortured scream she manages to wring out of Dean.

"Did you hear the good news?" she asks, carefully winding his intestines around his throat. She likes to decorate him like a Christmas tree, see how far she can tear him apart before his body can't take it anymore. She's very careful not to tug too hard, doesn't want to destroy her handiwork. Dean can feel her hands inside of him, tugging and rearranging him, his heart beating too-fast as she brushes soft fingers over it. "Not yet," she whispers, reaching down to touch her lips to his open chest. "Soon, though, soon, oh yes --"

There is no good news, not in hell...

But there is a whisper.

Lucifer is Dead.

Dean bites his lips, tries to hold back his screams, tries to hold back his secrets. He has one, one big secret, and when he can remember it he has to remember to never ever say it aloud.

\--

They investigate reports of zoo animals disappearing and being killed in their cages.

"It's an Occamy," Castiel announces gravely, as he peers at the small book in his hand.

"What is that?" Sam demands. "What book did you find that in?"

"It feeds mainly on rats and birds, though it has been known to carry off monkeys," Castiel reads. "I checked the logs at the Zoo, and it seems appropriate that they had a shipment of seven Sarus Cranes arrive from India two days before the attacks began. Only four of the birds remained alive." He gives Sam a pointed look.

"Um," Sam says. "Castiel, you are reading from _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_. Are you sure that's even a real creature? It's a Harry Potter myth."

Castiel levels his intense stare in Sam's direction. "Charles Shurley is not the only Prophet of the Lord, Samuel," he says severely. "You should not be so quick to judge the truth."

"I hate my life," Sam mutters under his breath.

Castiel stares at him.

"Okay, how do we kill it?" Sam demands.

\--

Castiel spends about half of his time with Sam, and half of his time flying around the country being angelic and unfathomable.

When he's alone, Sam listens to his iPod and spends a lot of time driving places, but Cas usually shows up on the important dates. On Dean's birthday, Cas had shown up with a magical six-pack of beer that had never really run out of beer, always managing to have two cans left, and the two of them spent the night getting completely trashed in a hotel room.

That's why it comes as a complete shock to Sam when he's driving on the interstate, halfway between Austin and Kansas City (in the middle of fucking Oklahoma which somehow makes it even worse), looking at the screen of his iPod and realizing that it's been exactly one year since Dean died.

An entire year, which is the longest he's ever been without the knowledge that Dean is out there, being flippant and sarcastic and a total asshole. A year has been twice as long as he's ever survived, knowing his brother is dead. It's half as long as Sam went without talking to him, before this entire shit storm of a mess got dumped in his lap.

It starts to rain, like the weather knows his moods or just wants him to suffer, and Sam spends twenty minutes trying to navigate with before he just gives up. He takes a random exit, and then another, and another, until he's driving in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, on a dirt road somewhere in Oklahoma.

Sam can remember the first time he watched Dean die, and the second time as well, and the third time -- and the hundred and forty times after that, every single one burned into his mind, engraved on the back of his eyelids every time he closed his eyes. He remembers dean dying, remembers that one horrible Wednesday when Dean didn't wake up again, when the world didn't restart and he had to live without his brother...

And the next time Dean died, when hell hounds tore him to pieces, Sam spent the next four months of his life going crazy, and the year after that determined to fix something in Dean that would always be broken.

And then there was the last time that Dean died, the time that just about broke Sam and made him hate the world. That was the last time, because Sam had killed him. Lucifer's interference meant that he wasn't really culpable, but he could still remember it, the bright red of Dean's blood on his hands, the way it had felt glorious to swing the sword and drive it into Dean's flesh.

Sam stumbles out of the car, staggering to the side of the road to gag and spit on the ground. He can't vomit, can't bring up anything other than saliva and the occasional mouthful of bitter bile, but his stomach won't stop wrenching and the heavy pounding rain does nothing to deter him.

"I hate this," Sam says, even though there is no one to hear him. He sits down on the ground, on the wet gravel that quickly muddies his jeans. The rain is cool on his skin, colder when he stops moving and lets it settle onto him.

It isn't the first time that Sam wants to head to a crossroads and make a Deal he knows isn't worth the price -- but he doesn't know how to do this, doesn't know how to live his life without Dean in it. He'd spent so much of his childhood taking Dean for granted, so much of his teenage years rebelling against John that he hadn't spared Dean a second thought. But Dean was his brother, he'd been everything important in Sam's life for so long that everything else pales in comparison.

"What am I supposed to do?" Sam sobs, tears obscuring his vision. He's soaked, now, the driving rain permeating his clothing, plastering his hair to his head. It doesn't matter that the water running down his skin feels ice-cold, he can still feel the path of his tears, hot and angry and filled with pain. "What am I supposed to do?"

The rain doesn't answer him.

Nobody answers him.

Sam cries until he can't anymore, cries until he feels there's nothing left inside of him to spend. The downpour becomes a steady rainfall, and then Castiel is standing in front of him, wearing the same damn outfit he's been wearing for the past four years.

"Sam," Castiel says, placing one hand on Sam's shoulder.

The temporary warmth of that small gesture almost burns him. "I can't do this," Sam says, dully. "I can't do it, Cas."

He almost expects for Castiel to argue with him, or yell at him, but Castiel stands in front of him in the rain with his hand on Sam's shoulders, and then he kneels so that he and Sam are face-to-face. The rain parts around the angel, flowing away from him, water droplets sliding and splattering over wings that aren't there.

"Samuel," Castiel says, eyes boring deep into Sam, looking right at his core, looking at his soul. "You are my friend. My partner. You are all that remains of the family I have chosen. I have been cast out of Heaven, and I may never return." He pauses, just long enough to let his words sink in. And then Castiel looks at Sam and Sam can see into his soul, it's the same gaze but the other way around. Castiel shows Sam where he's hurting, where he's lonely, where he's vulnerable and wounded.

"Don't make me do this alone," Castiel says.

Sam swallows, hard. It takes what's left of his energy, but he struggles to his feet with Castiel's help, and staggers towards the car, finally feeling the cold wet clothes against his skin and how much he really wants to be warm and dry. The cloud cover has broken up near the sun even though the rain is still falling, and he pauses at the Impala to look at the sun showers.

"Okay," he rasps, not looking at Castiel who is standing behind him. "Okay, Cas. You've got me. As long as you need me-- you've got me."

Castiel approaches, lays his hand very gently on Sam's wrist. "Look, Sam," he says. "A rainbow! A covenant between God and Man--"

Sam turns to look and is startled into a laugh. "That's a billboard for Skittles," he says.

Castiel leans in a little closer, wrapping an arm around Sam's middle, his other arm carefully pulling Sam in for a hug. Sam hugs him back, even though he's soaked with rainwater and he's getting Castiel wet, because he really needs a hug right now even if it does last thirty seconds longer than he ought to be comfortable with, and Castiel always holds on to him so tightly he can't breathe properly.

"Yes," Castiel says, when they finally let go of each other. "I know it is, Sam. Skittles are delicious."

\--


	3. Chapter 3

One year.

It has been one year. Twelve months. Fifty-two weeks. Three hundred and sixty-five days. Eight thousand, seven hundred, and sixty five hours. Five hundred and twenty-five thousand, nine hundred, and forty-eight minutes. It has been thirty one million, five hundred and fifty-six thousand, nine hundred and twenty-six seconds since Anna stepped into the bureaucratic office, and she has been filling out forms for _every single one_ of those seconds.

She is seriously fucking sick of it.

"Excuse me," she says, politely, (because everyone in Heaven must be polite) "Do you mind telling me how long it's going to take for this request to be processed?"

The power-tripping principality behind the desk of Heaven's white room doesn't even look up, simply quirks her wings and parrots the same phrase she's been saying for a year. "All requests will be processed at the discretion of the management. I'm afraid there isn't anything else I can do to help you."

Anna places the pile of paperwork onto the desk. "I've filled out the required forms," she says, gritting her teeth and forcing a polite smile onto her face.

"Please have a seat, Seraph," the receptionist says smoothly. "I'll get back to you as soon as possible."

\--

Sam teaches Cas to drive in an old, busted-up Honda.

"Pressing the brake? Okay. Now drop the emergency brake and put it into first."

Castiel follows directions wonderfully. For the first six minutes. After a few false starts and really awful turns, Castiel turns off the car and stares at Sam.

"It's fine, man," Sam assures him. "It's going to take you a few lessons to get the hang of it. Just... let's keep going for a little while."

"No."

"Castiel--"

"No, Sam, this is fruitless. It is without fruit. We ought to begin investigating the vampire nest in Delaware that you found last night."

Sam grins at him. "Wow Cas, you're giving up? So much for magic angel stamina. You're really going to let this rusty hunk of metal discourage you after ten minutes?"

Cas doesn't respond; he just stares mournfully through the windshield.

"Keys in the ignition, buddy, and let's get moving." Sam is still smiling, and still determined to teach Castiel to drive because he'd be damned if he was going to do it all himself for the rest of their lives. "What would Dean say if you flaked out on learning to drive because you think it's too hard?"

Castiel smiles a little at this. "He'd look at me cock-eyed and call me strange."

"Yeah, among twelve or so other names," Sam chuckles. "The key here is gentle, Cas, just work gently with the accelerator. Too slow and nothing will happen; too fast and you'll kill us all." He means it to be funny, so he laughs.

"That is not funny," Castiel tells him, easing his foot onto the gas. But secretly Castiel is glad for Sam's levity. It seems like the first time Sam has laughed this easily in a very long time.

It's three months of practice, two or three times a week, until Sam is satisfied that Castiel can actually drive. Not particularly well, and he's not very comfortable behind the wheel, but he can drive. Because Jimmy Novak's license has long since expired, Sam makes up a Nevada driver's license for him, with the hilarious alias of Eric Bragg. Castiel holds it up to the light. The plastic shines under the lamplight.

"Thank you, Samuel," he says, slipping it into the wallet he's taken to carrying.

"You earned it," Sam tells him, smiling.

\--

Two people have died in the town by the time Sam and Castiel arrive, one completely drained of blood with his throat torn into pieces. The second victim was found lying in the last few ounces of her blood, the puddle not nearly large enough to befit a healthy eight-year-old girl.

Castiel stares down at the body of the child, sees her pale blond hair and her eyes closed on the cool slab she is lying on. "She's a child," he says, because when he looks at her he sees Claire Novak at the age of nine years, two months, eight days and fourteen hours, dancing a short piece from Swan Lake in her ill-fitting tutu. The memory is Jimmy's, but Castiel has not known many children.

"I hate vampires," Sam says. "Come on, Cas. There's nothing more we can do here. Let's just-- get the bastards, okay? I've got a lead on where they might be hiding."

\--

"Ah. You are their leader, then. The leader of these fearsome _vampires_." Castiel sounds wildly unimpressed. "Is that so?"

"Yesssth!" the man exclaims around his fake teeth, clearly exasperated. "Bevare!"

"Have you ever even seen a real vampire before?”

Sam rolls his eyes. Cas has been trying with these people for forty minutes and Sam is getting impatient. "Cas, leave it."

"No no, Sam, I am trying to make a point. Vampires," he says again. "They kill people. Good people. People with families and loved ones and homes and lives. And you want to be one?"

"Fear our might!" the fake-vampire declares loudly.

Castiel's eyes narrow. "Do you know what we do to vampires?" he practically growls. "We pump them full of dead man's blood until they are as weak as newborn kittens, and then we pin them down and cut through their necks until we sever their heads from their bodies."

The man closes his mouth around his fake teeth, looking apprehensive.

"Perhaps we should give this one the same treatment," Castiel says darkly, looking at Sam. "If he is so determined to drink the blood of the innocent and take human lives."

"Uh," the man says. "You know I'm not really a--"

"No. But you want to be one, don't you?"

The man shrinks back a little. "No?"

"That's a very wise choice." Castiel stalks off, having finished terrorizing the small group of wannabe vampires. They were still hunting the real thing.

Sam smoothes over things as best he can, though he wants nothing more than to tell these people that Cas is exactly right and they are dealing with things they know very little about and that's not a good thing. They had actually provided some pretty useful information, so Sam thanks them and follows Castiel out.

\--

Two.

Two years is a very long time on Earth, although it's but a negligible moment to the Heavenly Host. Anna remembers being human, and she finds it hard to sit still with these smooth expressionless faceless beings, wings all tucked in behind them and holding themselves still as pillars of marble.

"Seraph Anael," the receptionist calls, finally.

Anna stands. "Yes," she says, barely managing to keep her tone polite.

"Your request has been documented," the principality says. "Requisition Number 106-453-332-476, please fill out the required paperwork." She waves her hand, and a clipboard appears.

Anna accepts it, her face no longer capable of maintaining the calm facade. "How long will this paperwork take me?" she demands.

"Please fill out the required paperwork."

"This is not a trivial request," Anna hisses. "This is urgent, and needs to be filled immediately. Can you even hear me?"

The principality pauses, tilts her head, inclines her wings respectfully. "I am sorry, Seraph. All requests are processed at the discretion of the management. I'm afraid there is nothing I can do to help you," she says.

Briefly, Anna considers killing her.

\--

The hunt in Phoenix goes south right around the time Sam finds six women, two children, and four men in various stages of fucked-up-to-all-hell in the middle of the nest. It takes hours to get them free, even more time to get them conscious and moving, and they're more scared of him than they are of anything else.

"I will assist them," Castiel says, when he appears in trench-coat-swirling glory, his eyes narrow in the half-light. "You keep watch. Your aim with a shotgun is much better than mine is, especially in the darkness." He's bleeding, perhaps from the fight earlier, the poison in the monster's fangs slowing down his angelic healing to a crawl.

"You first," Sam says. "Then them."

"Acceptable," Castiel concedes.

"Go to it," Sam snaps, checking and double-checking his pistols. The group is still more than an hour away from the town, and he feels twitchy and anxious with dark falling on them. Not to mention, everyone is staring at him, like they think he's a psycho killer or something. Granted, bursting in on a group of drugged and half-conscious people while covered in mud and wielding an axe hadn't been his intention, but the end result is all their eyes on him as he checks the guns.

"What are you?" one of the women asks, wide-eyed, staring at Sam.

Sam doesn't look up, embarrassed by all the attention. He continues reloading his guns, rock salt rounds and carefully checking over the shotguns so he doesn't have to look at all the people staring at him like he's their saviour.

"He's a hunter," Castiel answers for him, taping down the bandage on his own arm. He moves on to the next person, cleaning the deep scratches on his back and dabbing antiseptic ointment onto the wounds.

There's a long, long moment of silence. Finally, the same woman asks, "What do you hunt?"

The chupacabra's snarl is barely audible before the thing manages to hurl itself right into the centre of the group. It's scary fast, leaping at one of the kids with its teeth bared, sharp and sickening in the half-light. The gunshot is too loud, ricocheting around the small space as the chupacabra's body is snapped to the side mid-flight, blood spattering the ground as it flops, heavy onto the ground.

Sam cocks the shotgun, shoots it once more in the head to ensure it's dead. He looks at the woman who is staring at him in shock, and then he transfers his gaze to the scaly creature on the ground. "Monsters," he answers, reloading the shotgun and shouldering it with ease.

Castiel finishes bandaging the man in front of him.

"We should move," Sam says. "The others won't be far behind."

\--

"Excuse me," Anna says, politely. "I hope you don't mind the intrusion, but I'm finished with my paperwork."

On Earth, it would take a stack of paper as tall as the Empire State Building in order to make the equivalent pile of forms, but on Heaven no trees had to die for the same result. The forms are redundant, irritating, require triplicate and duplicate copies, every single one signed with Anna's true name and each forwarded to and endless list of departments requiring authorization signatures, witnesses, and a hearing on the merit of each request; Heaven's bureaucracy is as ruthlessly effective as Hell's when it comes to killing hopes and dreams.

"Thank you," the principality says with a smile. "Your request will be processed as soon as possible. Please have a seat."

Anael draws her sword, neatly slicing through the feeble partition, ducking low to dodge the Principality's wild flailing, and sweeping her wings out to steady her as she drives the other angel against the metaphysical wall. The knife pressed to the other angel's throat, Anael snarls, letting the heat and depth of her fury seep from her skin and invade the room.

"You know who I am, and what I have done. I have killed more angels than any other still among our ranks. I do not like to be dallied with, and my temper has been sorely strained. So allow me to make myself clear." She draws the sharp edge of the blade slowly across the Principality's neck, just enough to break the surface.

She can smell the sharp stink of the Principality's fear, bright and rancid around them.

Anna puts on her brightest smile. "I do not want to have my request processed in due time," Anael says, enunciating her words clearly. "I do not want to fill out paperwork. I do not want to be told that my request has been _noted_. Push my paperwork through, or I will rip your grace from your chest and hurl you down to Earth to live with the humans you and your kind are so eager to look down upon." She puts down the sword, leaning in closer. "And if you are ever to ascend back to the Heavens I will, treat you to a thousand horrors a thousand times worse," she whispers, finally letting the receptionist go.

The Principality touches the very edges of her fingers to her throat, swallowing delicately. "I'll go check on those forms," she says, finally, her voice wavering.

"Thank you," Anael responds.

 

\--

Dean's throat is hoarse from screaming when suddenly he tears himself free.

He falls off of the rack, finds himself standing in front of it with wide-eyed eager demons surrounding him. He's not on the rack, not being tortured, and the pain has been such a constant companion for him that he weeps in relief. Tears roll down his face, salty tears that don't burn because he doesn't have wounds for them to leak into, and the sudden absence of pain makes him giddy and happy.

"Winchester," a demon hisses, a smile spreading over it's face. It has too many teeth, all sharp and pointed where they're set in the skull, and the skin has been flayed from it's face so delicately...

Dean stares at the demon's face, sees his own handiwork. He remembers this one.

She shrieks and leaps at him, teeth and claws and her flesh blood-red, dripping and wet. He slams his head back, twists and knocks the bitch out of the air. Dean doesn't feel remorse, not when he cuts into her, not when he tears her to pieces and lets her corrupted soul disintegrating to ash in front of him.

A figure steps to his side.

Dean stares. He doesn't know what he's seeing.

\--

Five years after the apocalypse, Sam and Castiel save a pack of wolves from a bunch of crazed vampires who think they're living in Twilight. Castiel is furious, his eyes practically glowing when he strides into their midst, armed with his own invention: tranquilizer darts filled with dead man's blood and inscribed with the Enochian symbols to drive them to their knees with fear.

"Um, Cas," Sam says, after Castiel decapitates six vampires in as many minutes and doesn't seem to be slowing down. "Do you... want to talk about it?"

Castiel looks up, wipes a smear of blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. "These are God's creatures," he replies slowly. "Not unnatural abominations in the natural order. These are innocent creatures attempting to survive, and these wretched monsters have tortured them. Abused them. In order to see a human form that does not exist."

He turns back to his work, and Sam does the same, only mildly unsettled.

The wolves, freed now, do not attack either Sam or the angel. They sit, like well-trained dogs, and whine softly.

After the vampires have all been killed, Castiel goes to each of the wolves in turn, patting its nose and healing it as best he can.

"We should get out of here," Sam says, when Castiel spends too long hovering over a half-grown wolf pup.

"I cannot heal his leg." Cas says. When he looks up, it's to give Sam an all-too familiar expression.

It's the same one Sam gave to Dean when they found that kitten in an alley, back in '96. _'But he's hurt, Dean, we have to take care of him!'_ Hadn't worked at the time, although he'd managed to convince Dean to drop the kitten off at the closest animal shelter.

"Cas," Sam groans.

"He won't be able to walk," Castiel says, turning those absurd blue eyes at Sam, his lower lip trembling. "He'll die if we leave him in the wild."

"No," Sam tries to say, except what actually comes out of his mouth is, "Do you promise he won't eat me?"

Castiel looks at the wolf-pup. "He have given his word," he affirms.

Which is how Sam ends up camping for two weeks with Cas and a wolf puppy, which Sam has to pretend is just a normal dog to preserve what's left of his sanity.

Sam decides to call him Fido.

\--

Cas has entire conversations with their wolf-dog, and Sam's not sure how much the puppy understands, but he doesn't try and eat the angel, which is a good sign at least.

Sam is the one who has to go into town to get a tent, and whatever other supplies they're going to need for their stay in the middle of the freaking woods, which is a relief because he's fairly certain that wolves are NOT supposed to get all friendly with people. And he's still pretty certain that he's going to return to like, Castiel's torso and a wolf pup with a bloody muzzle.

He stops at an internet café to do some research, which tells him that wolves are not pets and should be avoided at all costs. There's a small section in a wikipedia article about wolves being kept as pets, and he makes a note to never, ever mention that to Castiel in case he decides that the wolf-pup is trainable. (It's clearly too old to be anything but a wolf, in Sam's mind.)

Returning back to where he left Cas, he is treated not to the sight of a bloody massacre, but rather to a sleeping wolf pup and Castiel perched in a tree, for no reason that Sam can fathom.

"Uh, Cas?" he says, at the same moment that Fido wakes up and snarls at him.

Castiel jumps down from the tree, trench coat flapping in the breeze, and growls back at Fido. "You shouldn't have startled him," he says to Sam.

Sam closes his eyes and counts to ten, and then he opens his eyes and glares at Cas. "You know," he says. "I never had to deal with wildlife rescues when I was hunting with Dean. Or with Dad, for that matter."

Castiel nods. "It was a point sorely lacking in your education," he says regretfully. "All of my Father's creations are precious, Samuel, and should be protected."

"Yeah," Sam says, even though Fido still looks like he wants to eat him.

\--

Castiel has named the pup _Uzziel_ , which is apparently the name of an angel of protection or some shit. Sam steadfastly ignores this, because a wolf named Uzi is a hell of a lot scarier than one named Fido.

"How much longer are we going to stay here?" he asks, on his sixth day camping.

Castiel walks over to Uzi, who doesn't seem perturbed at all by his approach. Uzi treats Cas just the same way Sam expects he would treat another wolf, and Cas just prods carefully at the wounded leg, checking on what looks like a mangled mess of exposed tendon and bone.

"Perhaps another week," Cas says, frowning. "The leg is not healing as quickly as I had expected." He pokes the leg again, this time with his eyebrows creasing in concentration. The flesh underneath his hand shifts, unnaturally, and the wolf lets out a pained yip that makes Sam wince in sympathy.

"One more week." Castiel decides.

\--

Sam's grateful to be out of the woods, to have a real bathroom and a proper shower, but Castiel gives him sad, puppy-eyed looks and goes quiet for a long time when they leave Uzi behind.

"Wolves are wild animals, Cas," Sam tries to explain. "It would have been cruel to keep him. He isn't meant for this kind of a life. And he would have destroyed the Impala's interior, you know that, right?"

Castiel looks sad, still, and Sam sighs.

\--

The two of them take out a woman in white down in Boston, a poltergeist in Indianapolis, and a nest of ghouls in Kansas City before they decide to take a break.

"What's next?" he asks Cas, resting his head against the cool glass of the window. Castiel isn't a half-bad driver, he usually doesn't speed or do anything that might wreck the Impala. This is not because he doesn't have the ability to drive like a maniac, and more because he's not willing to do anything to hurt the Impala, even going so far as to call her 'she' and, on one horribly surreal moment, 'our baby'.

"I think we should stop in Sioux Falls," Cas says.

Sam turns to look at him, and Castiel is tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, a habit he picked up sometime after Sam taught him to drive.

"Bobby?" Sam says.

"He would be glad to see you," Castiel says.

Sam scoffs at that, but secretly he's glad. He hasn't seen much of Bobby, not since Dean died. But he kind of misses the old man.

\--

After the requisite holy water, salt, silver and minor Latin exorcisms (as a precaution), Bobby greets Sam with an "and damn, boy, you're starting to look old!"

Sam points out that he's only thirty three, and begins to point out that he's still the youngest in the room by twenty years, but instead switches tacks and says, "I'll go get some beers." There was no use starting a fight on his first real day off in three years.

Bobby is bent double over the table, laughing, when Sam returns with the bottles. Castiel is sitting across from him and frowning.

"Bobby?"

"How long did he have you living in the woods, Sam?" Bobby gasps, wiping his eyes.

He groans. "Two weeks, at least."

"Sam, you lead a very strange life," Bobby grins up at him. Sam agrees.

Castiel's frown deepens. "It was a reasonable solution. We could not take the wolf with us, but it needed care, so of course we stayed."

"Of course," Sam says tightly, glaring at Bobby. "It's fine Cas, Bobby's just jealous he doesn't get out camping anymore."

They stay up half the night, swapping information and hunter gossip. Bobby is ravenous for stories of recent hunts since he can't get out on his own anymore. There is more laughter in this one night than Sam remembers in the last year. He and Castiel have their own fun, now that they are spending more and more time together, he supposes, but it's always quieter.

Around three am, the atmosphere gets quieter. Castiel yawns, stretching like a cat in his chair and leaning his head on his hand. Sam watches him from the corner of his eye. As always, the angel is completely unreadable. He’s nodding along with Bobby’s recounting of a bodak hunt he’d been on in San Jose back in ’79, and Sam notices the light catching his eye, the sparkle of blue and the sense of calm.

It's those eyes that do something to Sam -- whatever nervousness or anxieties Sam is nursing about a hunt or a hustle or any other situation, Castiel turns those eyes on him and Sam is struck with a sense of peace, of confidence and of 'yeah, this will be alright.' Sam can't remember feeling anything like since...

He tunes back into Bobby and Cas' conversation and they're talking about Dean, some hunt in Deer Park, Ohio that had gone horribly awry in the most hilarious way. Bobby is laughing at the memory and Castiel was smiling right along. Sam misses the punch line, but he picks up the gist of it, so he grins too.

It hurts -- of course, it always will -- but not in the same way it used to. Cas tells them about the night he and Dean had tracked a restless spirit to an old warehouse and Dean had accidentally dumped a can of paint on his own head. Sam adds the story of the woman in white in Jericho, when Dean had taken a nose dive off the old bridge and landed in the river.

By the time they realise they’re still talking about Dean, the sun is well up.

“We ought to get a few hours sleep,” Bobby says, looking at his watch again. “Then I want your boys’ opinion on some lore I was looking at yesterday. Seems we might have a bit of trouble coming up soon.”

Castiel excuses himself and disappears of into the ether, or wherever he went when he wanted to be alone – Denmark maybe.

Sam heads upstairs to crash, but Bobby stops him. “You look good, Sam.” Sam doesn’t reply. He senses this is going to turn into a lecture or what Dean would have labelled a ‘chick flick moment’ or maybe both.

“Not so sad or angry, I mean. I got used to you being a certain way,” Bobby admits. “Back when we thought the world was going to end. And it’s not like that anymore. I guess I’m glad... Glad that you and Castiel have found something...” he trails off.

“You guess you’re glad?”

"Never thought you'd be able to make it without Dean, truth be told. But then you've always surprised me."

Sam hugs him, which makes Bobby swear and smack him in the back of the head, and hug him back for a second. “Get to bed, kid, or I’ll make you sleep in the junkyard.”

\--

Once upon a time, an insidious, back-stabbing bitch of a demon had known fear. She/it said, _'Human souls don't just walk out of Hell and back into their bodies easy. The sky bleeds, the ground quakes. It's cosmic. No demon can swing that. Not Lilith, not anybody.'_

In the wake of Lucifer's death, that is still the case.

Dean is kneeling in a pool of his own blood, instruments of torture scattered across the almost-room, the room that stretches out infinitely on all sides. The demons crowd around, closer and closer, their grasping greedy claws reaching out, voices hissing and growling and spitting his name. "Winchester," they whisper, "Dean."

And then an angel appears.

The demons scatter like roaches.

"Dean Winchester?" the angel says.

"Yes," Dean croaks, his voice rasping.

"We apologize for the inconvenience. Due to an oversight in our Soul-Claims and Returns Department, your sentence has been retracted on a technicality." It looks at him, tilting its faceless, expressionless head thoughtfully.

Dean almost expects it to ask him to _please hold_ , and then start playing elevator music. It doesn't. Instead, the angel spreads its wings, looking around the now-empty circle of blood-soaked nothingness, and then it speaks again.

"Your transfer has been processed," the angel says. "Please follow me. It is my pleasure to relocate you."

\--

If hunting things and saving people is the family business, then Castiel deserves to be a honorary Winchester at the very least. He's an Angel of the Lord, no doubt about that, but the way he does this job -- the way he focuses, so intent and determined, almost as if he wants nothing more than to destroy the monster at hand... it's humbling to see him at work, to see the way he's more than willing to risk his life to save even a single human soul.

"Cas," Sam said, once, "You know you don't have to --"

"It is my choice," Castiel responds, cleaning blood from his blade. He doesn't look at Sam, but Sam doesn't need to look at him in order to know the expression in his eyes. It's the same look that John had always had, the same one that Dean had burning behind his eyes when he stared at yet another monster that was threatening women and children, threatening innocent lives.

"This is my job, Samuel," Castiel continues, almost as an afterthought. "I have chosen it." He looks at Sam, his blue eyes intent and clear.

"Yeah," Sam says, finally realizing why Dean had been so adamant about this -- about being a Hunter.

"It is the job I chose," Castiel says.

"Thanks," Sam says, knowing it's a non sequitur but unable to help himself. "Thanks for doing this with me, Cas," because he knows that he couldn't do it on his own. Sam has always been able to be a hunter, he's always had the skill and the drive, but not the heart. Dean was that part of him, and without Dean he wouldn't have managed.

Except for Cas, who gives him a fond look and pauses his work in order to wrap reassuring fingers around Sam's forearm. "You are my friend, Samuel, and my partner; we are a good team." He puts the clean blade down, picks up a pistol and begins to disassemble it, methodical and relaxed.

"I still miss him," Sam admits. Dean is on his mind a lot.

Castiel pauses, and then he looks down at the Glock in his hand. "I miss him as well."

They continue working in silence. For the first time in eight years, Sam feels at peace.

\--

"Thank you for being so... patient." Raphael says. "Of course, we'll approve the request." He smiles at Anna, although it's hardly comforting. "In due time, of course."

" _Now,_ " Anna snaps.

"Impatience doesn't suit you, Anael." Raphael comments. He stands very still, as do all the angels who have met with her before. "Of course, we'll have to search for a suitable candidate, ensure that she is of age, meets the right person -- these things take a long time to arrange, you realize."

"I've been filling out paperwork and discussing the relevance and implications of my request for the equivalent of eleven years on Earth. I realize that your priorities differ from mine, but time _is_ of the essence."

"I can't allow you to reunite him with the other," he inclines his head to indicate Sam Winchester.

"I understand," Anna sighs, looks down. "Raphael, I will observe the appropriate protocols, I promise you that. I had think that my willingness to do this the proper way, instead of bypassing our bureaucracy, would have shown you just how much I mean do to the right thing."

"You are very noble, Anna. I'm not sure that nobility is an appropriate trait among angels." Raphael frowns, considering. "Perhaps your re-indoctrination was not as thorough as it ought to have been." There's a subtle twitch of his lips, something in his eyes that seems almost gleeful at the prospect. As if she ought to be punished for daring to have any thought, any _motivation_.

Gritting her teeth, Anna put her hand on her sword, ready to draw it from her sheath with a moment's notice. "I serve God," she tells him coldly. "I do God's will. And I am determined to do so at any cost."

Raphael's hand goes to his own sword, grasping the hilt. It's his eyes, Anna sees, his eyes that betray his eagerness. Raphael, the healing hand of God, so eager for a fight -- there is something in here that is ironic, or perhaps simply sad.

"So be it," Raphael says.

The clash of swords ring loudly in the otherwise empty room, Anna's hand nearly as quick as Raphael's in bringing her blade from the sheath. The force of the first blow nearly sends her to her knees, but for all of Raphael's power he lacks Anael's swiftness.

He also lacks her conviction.

She counters his next thrust, parries and sweeps in close, inside of his reach to where his sword is useless against her --

And then she is driven back, the sword spinning out of her hand and clattering loudly on the hard marble floor. The metal sings, ringing in the sudden silence, and when Anna looks up -- she does not remember being thrown to the ground - she sees Michael crouching between them his sword held firm in one hand, and Raphael's in the other.

Her brother has not fared nearly so well against Michael as she; he has been driven to his knees, one hand pinned to the floor by Michael's sword.

"What," Michael says, and his voice is dark with thunder, "is the meaning of this?"

\--

"You idjits," Bobby groans, throwing a book at Sam's head. "How in the hell did you manage to get yourself into that kind of a situation? How much easier could I have made it?"

"They insulted Castiel's trench coat," Sam explains, for the hundredth time. "He had to defend his honour."

Castiel crosses his arms in front of his chest.

"I don't know why I waste my time with you fools."

"Because we're adorable?" Sam suggests brightly.

"Because if you do not, you'll be forced to suffer amongst the truly moronic proletariat?" Castiel suggests.

Pointing at Castiel, Bobby growls. "Don't you get smart with me boy, I'm not the one who nearly got himself flattened by the Faerie Court, now, am I?"

\--

"The matter is simple," Michael says. "The request must be processed. Immediately," he says, glaring at Raphael. "It is not for us to question God's plan. And this is part of God's plan."

Raphael looks as if he means to protest, but he wisely keeps his mouth shut.

"You know this to be true, for it is God's will that the soul of the Righteous Man be plucked out of the fires of the deep and returned to human life on Earth." Michael continues. "Therefore, any more of these... roadblocks... will be considered a direct attempt to thwart His will."

"She attacked me first," Raphael says, obviously choosing to fight a battle that he can win.

Nodding, Michael turns to face Anna. "I will ensure she is properly punished," he says. "Process the request, Raphael. I will meet you after I have dealt with Anael's insubordination."

When Michael leaves the room, Anna follows him.

\--

Sam presses his pistol into Castiel’s hand, glaring when the angel tries to refuse. Castiel is more than competent with a firearm, he's had enough practice. That doesn't mean that he likes using them. He wraps his hand around the handle and pouts, but after the nasty crack he’d just taken to the back of his head, he's willing to follow Sam’s implied order.

Sam edges around the door frame, shotgun leaning on his shoulder. He motions for Cas to stay put and as he whirls around the door and brings the shotgun level, it is evident there is nothing in the storage room.

“I injured it, whatever it was,” Castiel says, when they stop to regroup.

“What was it?” Sam asks him.

Castiel shrugs, scowling darkly. “I do not know." He pauses, and then adds, "It was big. Strong.” He rubs his fingers gingerly over the still-bleeding gash at the base of his skull. “It caught me by surprise.”

They find the creature ten minutes later, huddled under an old crate.

Sam puts two bullets into it before it can launch itself at his face, two sweet headshots that would have made his father proud. He nudges it with the toe of his boot, raising a sarcastic eyebrow in Castiel's direction. "Wow," he says, deadpan. "That thing's a real beast, Cas, it’s a wonder you’re alive at all."

It maybe three feet long, and has a fluffy, cuddly sort of look to it. It could almost pass for a Muppet, if it weren't for the prominent bullet holes through its face, and the bloodstained fangs that wouldn't have looked out of place on a sabre tooth tiger. The fact that ragged bits of the creature's last meal (a beloved local nun) were caught in it's teeth didn't help, either.

“It looked bigger when I couldn’t see it,” Castiel declares unrepentantly. He pulls a lighter from his pocket. "We must destroy it, so that nobody will see."

They burn the body and head back to the motel.

Sam cleans the wound on Castiel’s neck, but before he can get a bandage on it, it’s healed. “Why do I even bother?” Sam asks, dropping his first aid kit into his bag.

“Because you only thrive when you have something to take care of?”

"You're a dick."

"I am an Angel of the Lord," Castiel intones, using his Serious Voice.

Sam hits him in the face with a pillow.

\--

"How are you holding up, sweetheart?" the nurse asks with a smile as he quickly check the woman's chart. "I'm Ethan, by the way. You can just yell if you need me, I won't be more than a few seconds away at any time." He pats the patient's hand reassuringly.

"Well, hello there," the redheaded woman on the bed says with a little breathless laugh. "I'm doing alright, I hope."

"Mmm," he says, nodding as he quickly double-checks the monitors. "Well, you look like you're about ready to go. The doctor should be in soon, though. How's the pain? On a scale of bearable-to-unbearable?"

"Well," she says, still a little breathless. "I never would have guessed it by the name, but labour is not easy. Did you know that?" she giggles. "I'd say it's... bearable. For now." She takes a moment to breathe deeply.

"I've been working at this hospital for the last seventeen-and-a-half years," Ethan replies. "I have to say, most women aren't nearly as happy about it as you are, darling."

"Oh, I'm not happy, I'm giddy," the woman counters. "In between contractions, I'm feeling great. Kind of like someone's sitting on my stomach, but that isn't so bad, really." She blinks up at Ethan, dark hazel eyes surrounded by dark lashes. "Hey, are you checking on everybody as closely as you are on me?"

"Nope," Ethan says, grinning. "Today's a slow day in obstetrics, so you get special treatment."

"You could take a break," she offers.

"Don't be silly. It's boring enough here. And it's not hard to be nice when a sweet lady like you is in here, giving birth all by herself." He gets her a new bottle of water. "Do you want to get up and pace a bit?"

"Yeah," she nods, frantically. "That would be great." Before she can get off of the bed, though, she cries out, another contraction stealing away her breath.

"It's okay darling, just breathe through it--" Ethan says, giving her his hand to hold. "Breathe, baby. In and out, there you go."

She squeezes his hand hard, He checks the chart again. "I'm going to get the doctor," he says.

Things after that start to blur together. Her contractions get closer and closer together, the doctor pronounces her fully dilated and speeds her off to another room, where people start talking too quickly for her to properly process. There's a a lot of noise, and then Ethan is sitting right next to her, holding on to her hand. "Hey, what's your name?" he asks. "I'm sorry, I forgot to ask earlier."

"You can call me Anna," she replies, gasping. Ethan winces a little bit at the strength of her grip, but he doesn't let go. "I'm-- pleased to meet you, Ethan."

"You too, Anna," he replies. "Okay, this is the hard part. When the next contraction starts, you're going to have to start pushing, okay?" He pushes her hair back behind her ears, holds up her water bottle for her to take a few more sips.

"This is going to hurt," Anna says, gritting her teeth. "Okay, Ethan, let's do this thing."

She screams when the contraction starts, because it hurts. It hurts a lot, and it only gets worse and worse and worse, and Anna screams and squeezes Ethan's hand and then finally the doctor says she can stop pushing. Gasping for breath, she lies back, exhausted, barely swallowing any of the proffered water. "I don't think this was nearly as fun as it seemed in the advertisement," She says, grimly.

"Look on the bright side," Ethan says, grinning at her. "After the workout you're getting, you won't need to hit the gym for a month. This has got to be equal to what, ten hours at the gym?"

Anna blinks. "I have been in labour for fourteen hours,"

"Six weeks without a workout, then."

The next contraction is worse than the first.

Afterward, Ethan pulls his left hand out of her grip, replacing it with his right. "You're stronger than you look, Anna. Come on, put some of that strength into pushing out that baby. Don't you want to meet him?"

"It feels like the baby is having a bonfire in my tummy," Anna pouts, slumping backwards, limp with exhaustion. "I don't want to meet him if he's gonna be a pyromaniac."

"But fire is pretty," Ethan jokes, before her next contraction.

The contractions are practically right on top of each other, barely any time for her to catch her breath. Anna can’t resist screaming out in pain, and then she lets go of Ethan's hand because she's afraid she's going to break his fingers.

"Damn it," she yells. "A baby is not a reward! A baby is a punishment! Ethan, get me a phone, I'm going to call Michael and scream at him until his eardrums shatter."

"Michael, huh?" Ethan asks, as Anna practices her breathing techniques. "He the father?"

"All--" Anna gasps, "His--" another gasp, "Fault." She screams again.

"I can see the head," the doctor yells, his voice practically obscured by Anna's screaming. "He's crowning! Almost there, Anna, push, push!"

"Push!" Ethan says, encouragingly. "You can do it, darling!"

Anna replies by screaming again, a long wordless wail of anguish, and then the doctor says "He's out," and she's collapsing back down onto the bed.

There's noise and confusion and she is vaguely aware that her face is wet, although she doesn't remember crying. "Where is he?" Anna asks, confused. She can't hear a baby crying. Babies are supposed to cry, when they're born, she had done her research.

The doctors are saying things, but Anna can't hear anything other than the rapid, too-loud beating of her own heart. Her baby isn't crying. Something is wrong, something's horribly wrong. "Where is he?" Anna says, and now tears are falling down her face again, blurring her vision. "Where's my boy? I want to see him."

And then she hears a baby start to cry.

"It's okay," Ethan says, grabbing her hand and squeezing it. "It's all right, Anna, he just had a blockage in his airway, the doctor had to suction it. Happens all the time, he's fine," and then they're handing him to her, a tiny squirming mess of wrinkled, slimy infant.

He's covered in blood and amniotic fluid and his skin is wrinkled and his face is screwed up as he screams angrily at the world. He's a bald, wrinkly, skinny baby, and he is the most beautiful thing that Anna has ever seen. "Oh wow," she says, staring down at him. "Wow, would you look at him?"

"Ten fingers, ten toes, one penis." Ethan tells her, impressed. "And one hell of a healthy set of lungs. Good job, mom."

Anna swipes anxiously at the tears on her face, smiling the smile of the exhausted-yet-deliriously-happy. "He's perfect," she says. "Look at him, Ethan, he's absolutely perfect. Remind me to thank Michael, okay? He's perfect."

Laughing, Ethan pats her shoulder and stands up. "Have you decided what you're going to name him?" the nurse asks, curious.

She stares down at her son, exhausted but happy. He's asleep in her arms, a tiny precious bundle. Ten fingers, ten toes, a tiny perfect shell of an ear that she traces lightly with one fingertip. "Yes," Anna Milton says, her lips curving into a sweet, gentle smile.

"His name is Dean."

"That's a nice name," Ethan says. "How did you pick it out?"

"It's a family name," Anna answers, truthfully.

\--

"I really like him," Claire says, sitting quietly on the park bench. She kicks idly at the ground, scuffing her shoes. "He's nice. He's... he reminds me of Daddy. He's real sweet, too. Mom says he's a gentleman."

Castiel isn't sure what he's supposed to do, at this juncture. "I'm glad," he says, hesitantly, "That you have found someone... That you have found someone to spend the rest of your life with."

"Yeah," Claire mumbles. "Um. I may have. I mean. I didn't lie, or anything, it's just that Frankie and I have gotten to talking, and I may have told him that my dad didn't die."

"Jimmy is with me, though."

"Yeah," Claire winces. "About that..."

"No," Castiel says, eyes widening. "Claire-- you cannot ask me to--"

"Please, Cas?" Claire's lower lip trembles. "Please? I just want-- I always wanted my dad to walk me down the aisle, and I mean--"

"Jimmy is _with me_ , Claire." Castiel tells her, softly. "If I could leave this body and let him have this day with you, I would. You know that I would. I would do anything for... I would do anything in my power, to ensure that you are happy."

"Yeah."

"But I cannot leave this vessel. Not without obtaining another one, and-- even if I did, your family would wonder why this body hasn't aged at all."

They look at each other. Claire bites her lip, staring directly at Castiel.

Castiel sighs. "You've already planned for this contingency, haven't you?"

She tugs nervously at the end of her braid, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. "It's-- Um. Just. That I may have learned some makeup tips, and stuff." Claire admits sheepishly. "Back in college? So that I could. Uh. If it came down to it, I mean."

"You are asking _me_ to walk you down the aisle," Castiel realizes, staring at Claire. "Not Jimmy. You're asking... me."

"Dad's with you, now." Claire shrugs. "And you've been taking care of me for so long. I kind of want you there. You, and daddy, and mom."

"Very well."

"Really?"

Castiel glares at her. "I said yes, Claire," he replies, firmly. "Leave it at that."

\--

"You want to kill the babies," Castiel repeats, slowly.

Snarling, Sam attempts to make the same point he's been arguing for the past hour. "They're _basilisks_."

"Samuel. They are _babies_."

Sam resists the urge to tear his hair out. He hasn't been this frustrated since August of 1988, when John Winchester had refused to buy him a family-sized bag of skittles. Sam had pitched an epic temper tantrum, culminating in a screaming fit in the grocery store aisle while a nine-year-old Dean attempted to drag him out of the store by his belt loops. "They turn people to stone by looking at them."

"They haven't turned anyone to stone. They're innocent lives." Castiel holds one of the fat, chubby-looking basilisk babies in one hand, tucking another into his coat pocket.

"They haven't turned anyone into stone yet, Cas. They're going to. It's not their fault, but we have to protect--"

"Innocent lives." Castiel cuddles one of the basilisks.

"You're the most infuriating man in the world," Sam tells him. "In the entire world."

Castiel levels a stare at Sam. "I am an Angel of the Lord."

"The basilisks have got to die. Or we have to blind them, which seems kind of cruel to me." Sam replies. "Because if we don't, we're going to have to do this hunt all over again, and this time we're going to need to bring backup for the five basilisks we let live."

Castiel looks really sad. "Are you sure they can't be trained to--"

"We are not keeping a pet basilisk," Sam snaps at him.

"I'm not going to kill them," Castiel says, pouting. "If you want the _babies_ to die so much, then you can kill them yourself." He scoops the pudgy, sleepy basilisk out of his pocket and deposits it in Sam's cupped hands, stomping off while still cuddling the other one.

Sam stares down at it. It's kind of cute. "Fine!" he shouts.

"Fine!" Cas shouts back over his shoulder.

\--

Castiel walks Claire down the aisle at her wedding.

"We are gathered here today, to witness and celebrate the joining of Claire Novak and Franklin Robert Carlisle in holy matrimony. With love and commitment, they have decided to live their lives together as husband and wife," the minister says, smiling broadly.

Amelia is the only one who doesn't think he's Jimmy. She smiles at Castiel, kisses his cheek, and says, "How are you?"

Castiel's smile is not forced. "I'm well," he says. "You look beautiful, Amelia, as always. And Claire is absolutely radiant."

"Yeah," Amelia laughs. "She looks like quite the angel, doesn't she?"

"Yes," Castiel says seriously. "She does."

Before Castiel leaves, Amelia catches his hand.

"Thank you," she says. "For what it's worth-- And I know it's not the same. But Claire is as much your daughter, now, as Jimmy's."

She turns and leaves before he can respond, but something inside of him aches at her words. Castiel can feel Jimmy's presence, proud of his daughter and elated at the chance to be here.

After a moment, the ache subsides, and Castiel returns to Sam.

"Have fun?" Sam asks.

"Yes," Castiel replies, truthfully.

\--

On his fiftieth birthday, Sam decides to retire. It takes a few months for him and Cas to find a proper house, one with a fenced-in yard and a front porch. It's big and open and he likes it, even has a room set aside for Bobby, when the other hunter decides to visit.

"This is nice," Sam says, when they unpack their meagre belongings. "I like this."

Castiel hasn't ever lived in a house, but he's happy because Sam is happy. He helps to paint walls, sand floors, fix up the roof and a hundred other things he doesn't really understand, but the work is intriguing and Sam seems to come alive as they fix up the house.

Their furniture is ugly and second-hand, but comfortable. Castiel protests the need for him to have a bedroom, because he doesn't sleep, but Sam insists that he at least have his own room in the house. "Even if you don't sleep in it," Sam says firmly. "You've gotta have your own space."

"Fine," Castiel bitches, crossing his arms across his chest.

"Fine!" Sam shouts.

Castiel's room has a large oak desk and a comfortable chair, and a wall papered with postcards from all the places he's been. It doesn't take long before the wall is full and the postcards start to overlap, but Cas refuses to put the postcards on another wall.

\--

"Hello, Mr. Winchester." The agent is wearing a very nice suit with a very ugly tie. "I'm Special Agent O'Malley, with the FBI. May I come in?"

Sam stares at the man standing on his porch, and then at the big, black car idling in the driveway. "I really hope you're not here to arrest me," Sam says, seriously. "Because I'm too old to be a fugitive. It's hell on the knees." He opens the door, and waves the man in.

"There's no need to worry about that, sir," the agent says. "Your record has been expunged. You're no longer wanted for any crimes in any of the fifty states."

"Oh," Sam says. "That's good news. "Well, that's worth celebrating. Tell your partner to come on inside. You want a beer?"

"No thank you." Agent O'Malley says. "This is official business, if you don't mind."

"Official business."

"Yes." Agent O'Malley looks deadly serious. "I am not sure how much you know about the events that happened towards the end of the year 2009, but our sources say that you were apprehended on two separate occasions, with your brother, Dean."

Sam cracks open a beer. "This about Dean?"

"We need to know everything that you know about supernatural phenomenon, how to identify, hunt, and kill them, as well as any information you may have on the necessary safety precautions when doing so." Agent O'Malley says. "The FBI has been ordered to open a branch for Special Investigations, and as far as we can tell you're the authority on the subject."

"Me? Seriously?" Sam takes a long swallow his beer leans over and grabs a notebook from the counter. "Boy are you guys barking up the wrong tree," he says, shaking his head. "Give me your pen, Special Agent. I'm going to do you a favour and put you in touch with someone who knows about six thousand times more than I ever will."

\--

Bobby calls to yell at Sam, but Sam only laughs at him.

"Do you have any idea what kind of idjits they have working with me?" Bobby shouts. "These morons can't even lay a proper salt line!"

"Don't shout so much, Bobby!' Sam replies, trying to hold back his tears of laughter. "Think of your blood pressure!"

"I never had problems with my blood pressure before you sent me a bunch of idiots to train!" Bobby roars. "Not a single decent hunter in the lot of them! I'd trade my left nut if it meant I didn't have to keep correcting them on every little detail. Basic Latin, Winchester. These useless lumps of clay can't even get basic Latin down."

"Perhaps I should help him," Castiel says, frowning at the phone.

"Don't you dare," Sam protests, covering the receiver with his palm. "This is the most fun he's had in years!"

\--

When Sam is diagnosed with cancer, Cas sells the Impala.

"Wow," Sam says, staring at the hospital room around him. "This really, really sucks."

"Indeed," Castiel agrees. "This sucks."

\--

Sam holds on as long as he can, because he doesn't want to leave Cas alone. The angel -- and he is still an angel, despite everything, despite his betrayal, despite his conviction, despite his choice to carve out a place in the cosmic order for humans to stay and fight for their own existence.

But three years of increasingly hopeless cancer treatments have taken their toll, and some things cannot be overcome by willpower alone.

Castiel watches him with a sad smile. "It is okay," he says. "Thank you, Samuel, for these thirty years." Unlike Sam, Cas hasn't aged a day. Sam remembers that, remembers Cas in another body, telling Jimmy _'You won't die, or age. If this last year was painful for you, picture a hundred. A thousand more like it.'_

Never had Sam expected that Cas would have to spend those years alone. It doesn't seem fair, somehow, even as he looks up at the blank white ceiling. He thinks he needs to hold on, for a little while longer - a few more minutes. Hours. Another day -- Sam can feel it, he needs just a little bit longer --

And Sam Winchester dies, thirty years after his brother lost his life fighting for Humanity.

With his passing, Castiel is alone, for the first time.

\--

  
  


illustration by [](http://epiphanyx7.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**epiphanyx7**](http://epiphanyx7.dreamwidth.org/)  



	4. Chapter 4

When Sam dies, Dean remembers.

It happens at two-thirty-nine in the afternoon, on a Tuesday. He's working on the car -- an old beat-up thing his mom picked up cheap for his sixteenth birthday, but after some elbow grease and a lot of searching for parts, Dean's sure there isn't an engine in the world that runs as smooth as his baby's.

He's just put the hood down, about to go inside and ask his mom if she wants him to run into town (any excuse to drive his baby is a good one) when suddenly he remembers, and he falls to the ground as if he's been kicked, both knees giving out at once. The force knocks the breath out of him, leaves him gasping, and Dean lies on the cool asphalt trying to suck in a single god damned breath, dizzy with it.

Seventy three years of memories pile onto the ones he's already got.

"Oh fuck," Dean moans, even though his momma raised him to be mindful of when he swore. "Fucking motherfucker, shit, shit, holy mother of--"

"Dean Jacob Michael Milton!" his mother yells from inside the house. "What in God's name is going on out there? You'd better not have dropped that car onto your foot!"

He'd never want to admit it, but Dean presses his face against the ground and cries, hot tears running down his cheeks as he curls into himself, half on his side.

"Dean?"

He wants his mother -- he wants Sam, the brother that Dean didn't even know he had until thirty seconds ago. Sammy -- how could he have forgotten Sammy? He wants to vomit, bile rising in the back of his throat, but then his mother is there, wrapping her arms around him.

Dean turns his face towards her, lets himself disappear for a moment in her familiar, warm embrace. "Momma," he cries, hating himself for sounding like a god damned baby. "Momma, I--"

"It's okay, Deanie-baby," she whispers, petting his hair. "It's okay -- I'm sorry, I thought you'd have more time before this happened. I'm sorry. It's okay, baby, it's going to be okay."

"What happened?" Dean asks, when he's staggered inside, seated at the kitchen table with his mother. "Why did I-- I wasn't supposed to remember, why did I remember?"

Anna wraps her hands around the mug of coffee in front of her. "I'm sorry, Dean," she says again. "Your-- your brother... Sam is dead."

\--

Castiel stands up, leaving the flowers on Samuel Winchester's grave.

It's a Hunter's grave, a small unmarked cross; nothing but charred bone beneath the mound of dirt. It is exactly as Sam would have wanted. Castiel stretches, and he feels in him the weight of his existence bear down on his shoulders, millennia without a thought of his own and three years -- three _fucking_ years, he mentally amends, and he destroyed it all. His family and his friendships, and now, he is banished from heaven and despised by hell, welcome only on the Earth he helped to save.

Without a doubt, it was worth it.

Castiel turns from the grave and walks away. Not for the first time, he misses Dean.

Castiel can do many things, but he does not know if he can bear the rest of his existence in solitude.

\--

The boy stands near the beaten, hollowed-out wreck of a classic vehicle. He talks on his cell phone, loudly, obnoxiously, as teenagers are wont to do. Castiel does not mean to approach him, but he is lonely and the child is someone to talk to, even for a moment.

But then the boy looks up, green eyes sparkling in wry amusement and something like recognition, and Castiel feels his heart catch in his throat. "Yeah," the teenager says, grinning brightly as he rolls his eyes at the person on the other end of the phone connection. "I got it -- stop it, mom _\-- mom_. I've got it. Don't worry about it. We'll be by for dinner, okay?" and he snaps the phone shut.

"Hello," Castiel says, feeling dumb and awkward once more. He had thought, after thirty years on earth, he had finally learned to act human, but this emotion is a new one for him.

"Hey," Dean says, grinning at him. "Sorry I'm late, Cas. Took me a while to get suited up," and he waves his hands joyfully at his own youthful body. "Come on," He says. "Chicken casserole's cooking; mom ain't gonna wait around for us, you know."

The Impala has seen better days, but the engine starts with a deep rumble that is almost a purr. Castiel settles into the passenger seat, relaxing as he does so. He had not expected to see Dean ever again.

"Come on," Dean says, twisting around to look at Cas for a moment before he puts his eyes back onto the road. "Cas -- you didn't think I was going to just leave you alone, did you?"

Castiel smiles. "To be honest, Dean," he says, "I hadn't really thought about it."

\--

Anna is exactly as Castiel remembered her, although her body has aged, matured. There are streaks of grey in her hair and lines beside her eyes, around her mouth. She feeds him meatloaf. Nevertheless, her spirit shines as brightly as it always has.

Dean, this new version of Dean, laughs a lot, something that Castiel is not used to. He remembers Dean, but his laughter had been loud and raucous, the instances in which he laughed had been few and far between. Dean catches him watching, and in between mouthfuls of meatloaf (delicious, Castiel decides. He does not need to eat, but he does because food is delicious, and it is not a sin to enjoy what has been given for him to enjoy) he turns to Castiel and pokes him gently with his fork. The prongs feel sharp against his skin, but they do not hurt him.

"Cas," Dean says, softly. "It's me."

Of course it's Dean, there is no doubt about that. Castiel can see him, inside of this younger, rejuvenated body, he can feel the resonance of his own soul reflected in him. Castiel has held Dean's soul in his hands and shaped his body, he has carried Dean's spirit out of hell, he has carried his memory for decades. Castiel knows that the young man in front of him is Dean Winchester -- Winchester no longer, perhaps, but still Dean.

"I know," Castiel says. This, he knows, is a miracle -- when someone dies, they stay dead. But in this instance, Dean has been returned to him, and Castiel knows that this would not have been the case if it had been up to Heaven. He has never seen Dean like this, worry-free and youthful and filled with laughter and joy, he has only seen the other Dean, the part of him that was weary and angry and scared, and determined -- Dean has always been determined.

Although he wants to, Castiel does not turn to Anna and thank her.

Anael smiles and does not ask for his gratitude.

"The meatloaf is delicious," Castiel says instead, because it is the truth, and because Dean grins when he says it. "It tastes-- _heavenly._ "

Anna smiles. "I see you've finally found your sense of humour."

"Something like that," Castiel replies.

 

\--

In the middle of the night, Castiel has to walk down the hallway from his guest room, pausing in front of Dean's doorway and laying his fingers on the worn wood. He is not allowed to walk into Dean's bedroom -- his years on earth have been helpful in acclimating him to human customs -- but he can stand here, in the dark, and tell himself that he is not alone.

Through some miracle of faith, he is not alone.

Anna's presence is not permanent, he can see that she will return to heaven soon. Her grace is within her, bright and shining, and Dean is --

Dean.

Castiel can feel his heart clench, feel his soul swell with joy and happiness. He finds himself choking back tears, his entire body trembling and weak with relief, with gratitude. _Dean._

The door in front of him opens, and Dean -- so much younger than Castiel's mind remembers him, but his soul the same, shining dark and pure -- speaks softly. "Cas?" he says, voice rough. He's rubbing tiredly at his eyes with one hand, but the dim light in the room behind him indicates that he had not been sleeping.

"I'm sorry," Castiel apologises. "I did not mean to disturb you."

Dean shrugs. "I wasn't sleeping, Cas," and there's no way to hide the way Castiel's heart clenches, hard, in his chest when he hears Dean speak his name. No one has ever said his name like that, and Dean is the one who gave him the name. Dean is the one who named him. "Come in," Dean says.

Castiel walks into Dean's room.

"I can't sleep," Dean confesses. "Don't suppose you can do anything about that? I promise not to care if you stand there and watch me, even though that's seriously creepy."

"I will help you," Castiel promises. He puts Dean to sleep with a touch of his fingers, and lifts him gently into his bed. Almost as an afterthought, he covers the young man with a blanket, and then Castiel sits on the edge of the mattress and watches him sleep.

\--

Dean is not home when Gabriel shows up with the dog.

Castiel is in the kitchen, drinking coffee with far too much sugar and carefully perusing a stack of national newspapers. It would be easy to call the office and ask them for a job, but he'd rather search through the papers himself for their first job of the season. In the next week, when Dean's college classes end, they can spend the summer in the Impala, hunting things and road tripping. After a quick phone call to Bobby, Castiel has the coming summer officially listed as a work program co-op placement with the FBSI, because he can do things like that.

He looks up from his reading when his angelic sibling appears in the room, holding a squirming bundle of enthusiastic puppy. After a long moment in which he could swear that Gabriel looks almost guilty, Castiel says in a neutral tone, "Is that Sam?" because the puppy's soul shines with a distinctly non-canine glow.

"What?" Gabriel just shrugs it off, grinning from ear to ear like it is the funniest thing he'd ever thought up. "Variety is the spice of life, little brother. It's like I said to the toddler who swallowed the chewing gum: 'this too shall pass'." And with that cryptic and deeply troubling statement, he is gone.

Castiel looks down at the puppy.

The puppy makes a happy, growling bark and bows down, thumping her little tail on the carpet. "Well, I suppose Sammy is an acceptable name for a dog," he says to the dog, pulling a slip collar and leash from one of his pockets, as if this had been something he prepared himself for.

\--

"Hey, Cas," Dean says, grinning cheerfully when Castiel picks him up at the airport. "Cute dog. Where'd you get it?"

Castiel shifts, deeply uncomfortable for a long moment. "Dean," He says.

Frowning, Dean looks at Castiel, and then at the dog. "You got a dog, Cas? It's okay to get things without consulting me first, you know. I'm not upset. It's a puppy, not a self-aware android."

Castiel blinks. "I'm not sure I understand that reference," he replies, confused. "Dean, the puppy is your brother. Although, granted, his current form is in no way related to you, and his current form is also female. He is, additionally, no longer housed in a human body," he adds helpfully.

Dean's reaction is somewhat less troubled than Castiel had expected. "You're shitting me, right?" he says, eyebrows scrunched up as if he doesn't understand Castiel's sense of humour.

\--

Dean is absolutely livid the first time Sammy chews up the sleeve of his leather jacket. Castiel sagely keeps quiet and doesn't point out that he had asked Dean to put it away on three separate occasions. Sammy hides under the kitchen table and whines pathetically whenever Dean storms by, muttering about obedience lessons and stupid Tricksters and getting a cat.

His ire doesn't last.

By breakfast the next morning, Sammy's resting her head in Dean's lap as Dean slips toast crusts off his plate, smiling fondly at her when he thinks Castiel is looking elsewhere.

\--

"You've got to be kidding me, Sammy," Dean grumbles, tossing the tennis ball back and forth between his hands. Sammy's eyes follow the ball, totally hypnotized. "You really just want this ball, don't you? You're addicted to it..." He tosses it up and then catches it. Sammy barks once, and circles around Dean's ankles.

"I've got to do readings for class, Sammy, and we've been out here for like, an hour. One more." Dean says, and then he winds up and throws the ball trying to really make it count. Sammy flies down the length of the yard, clearing the hedge into the neighbour's yard without faltering and is back at Dean's feet before Dean can even shout at her to get out of the other yard.

Dean grumbles again, but good-naturedly, because it's really hard to stay mad at a puppy who's only dream in life is to chase a soggy tennis ball back and forth.

A quick Google search later that night turns up something called flyball. It involves a mechanism that will shoot the tennis ball into the air when the dog jumps on the platform. It becomes a project for Dean and Sammy, to occupy the long afternoons between classes and when Castiel gets home from work for dinner. After three prototypes, the platform working brilliantly and Sammy can chase the ball on her own while Dean sits on the lawn and does homework or leafs through a magazine until she's left a pile of ten balls at his feet and he's got to get up and reload the spring.

Castiel watches from the window, softly smiling. Soon they'll be on the road again, hunting things and helping people, and life will get hectic, noisy and dirty, but these peaceful moments with the three of them together... they were far more than Castiel had ever hoped for before.

\--

Dean is pretty sure it’s the coolest thing he’s seen in a long time. Castiel is chanting in Ancient Greek, keeping the creature pinned in the corner, while Dean scans the room trying to find the silver knife that had been knocked out of his hand.

Sammy is growling up a storm, teeth bared and hackles raised, snapping at the thing every time it throws itself against the barrier Cas is holding it behind. She is seriously pissed, because the other creature is dog-shaped, and it hurt her pack and if only there wasn’t the weird crackly, static feeling every time she got too close, she would be tearing the thing’s throat out.

“Sammy, relax,” Dean says, but she doesn’t listen. Then he spots his knife. Unfortunately, there’s no way to get to it without cutting between the monster and Castiel, which will break whatever hold Castiel has on the beast in the corner. But the only other option is to wait here until something sharp and silver magically appears and cuts out the thing’s heart. So Dean goes for the knife

“Okay Cas, brace yourself,” he calls and ducks in front of him to grab the knife. He hears Castiel shout a warning, the ferocious snarl from the monster and the sound of claws on hardwood. Dean snatches up the knife, wheeling around to find the creature in mid-jump, launching itself full speed at Dean’s unprotected back.

And then instead of tearing out his skin the thing is on the floor, yelping loudly with a furiously angry Sammy on top of it. Dean can’t really tell what’s going inside of the angry, yelping, barking blur, but he manages to haul Sammy off the other hound and stab the knife through its chest.

“Sammy, Sammy, calm down. Heel,” he says, rubbing behind her ears with one arm wrapped around her chest. She's still got her eyes trained on the creature's corpse, lips pulled back in a silent snarl, even though her tail starts to wag when Dean starts saying, "Good girl, good girl -- don't worry, you killed it, you did a great job Sammy."

“That was well done,” Castiel informs them, calmly re-holstering his unused gun. “But next time, try not to drop your knife, Dean.”

\--

Sammy dies at the age of twelve, which is the average lifespan for her breed. She dies from a pituitary carcinoma, which is also, supposedly, normal.

The first night Dean sleeps alone in his room, it feels anything but normal.

\--

Dean is forty-two years old when Sam arrives, a petulant runaway with a backpack that looks almost comically large on him.

"Shut up," Sam says, spying Dean's amused expression. He nods at Cas, heading upstairs as if he knows they've got a bedroom set aside for him.

"Bitch," Dean yells up the stairs.

"Jerk," Sam yells back down.

Castiel stands in the living room and smiles.

\--

For the first two weeks, Sam has nightmares every night. He wakes up in the dark screaming, and he won't stop crying even when Dean and Castiel both appear at his bedroom door to comfort him.

After consulting with Gabriel, Castiel builds a pillow fort in the living room. Sam and Dean sit inside of it, watching the first season of Wormhole Extreme on DVD as Castiel carefully makes enough hot chocolate for all of them and fits the requisite number of marshmallows into each mug.

They spend the entire night on the floor in the living room, sprawled over blankets and the ruins of their fort, watching episode after episode until Sam's eyes start to droop and he finally falls asleep, snoring softly with his head pillowed on Dean's shoulder.

Dean wraps his arm around Sam, closing his eyes and drifting off to sleep as well.

Castiel stays awake, quietly changing the DVDs and watching all the episodes he can, guarding Dean and Sam as they slumber.

\--

It takes almost a year for Castiel to get custody of Sam, and even then he ends up pulling strings in order to have Sam placed with him. "This is ridiculous," a ten-year-old Sam says, when the papers are finally signed and he is _officially_ Sam Winchester, adopted son of Castiel Winchester.

"Shut up and be thankful," Castiel mumbles. He still owns the same house, lets this younger version of Sam decorate his room any way he wants. Castiel switches over to a desk job at the FBSI, so that he can have steady hours and a stable environment with which to raise Sam.

Sometimes, it's hard to believe that this child is the same Samuel.

Castiel can see that it is, though, he can see Sam's soul shining brightly from this small child, and it kind of hurts when he realizes that in only ten years, Sam has been forged into something altogether new. He isn't a man with broad shoulders and far too much height, he's a child with a soft and sensitive soul who still has nightmares sometimes, a child that needs protection and nourishing and a high-calorie diet.

"Do you want the rocket-ship bedsheets, or the ones with the robots?" Castiel asks.

Sam carefully considers this, a furrow appearing between his eyebrows as he weighs the merits of each. "Rocket-ships," he decides.

Castiel also buys a night light, leaving it in the package for Sam to unpack. Neither he or Dean makes comment when they see it plugged in.

\--

At the age of forty-five, Dean is diagnosed with lung cancer.

Because he's a terminal idiot, this doesn't stop him from hunting.

\--

Even though he does not speak of it, Castiel is frightened when he realizes that he cannot sense even the slightest hint of Jimmy's presence. His vessel feels empty, hollow, like it never had before. He is alone in the body, all the time, for every waking moment.

Angels do not need to sleep, but Castiel sometimes lays down and closes his eyes. When his eyes are closed, Castiel falls into Jimmy's dreams. They're the only part of Jimmy he has left.

\--

Bobby yells at Dean for skipping out on his cancer treatments. "How in the hell do you expect to fight a chupacabra if you keep puking on the monsters instead of shooting them?" Bobby demands, adjusting his hat.

"Bobby," Dean replies, taking a deep breath and trying not to retch. "You are like two thousand years old, I really don't think that you should be hunting either."

"That gods-damned retirement community is boring as hell," Bobby grumbles. "And I'm only a hundred and four, you idjit. You can't even do math, you ought to get your ass back into a hospital bed before you get somebody killed."

Dean starts to cough, but even in the middle of the coughing fit he kills four of the six ghouls; one shot, one kill. Grazes another and gets the last one in the leg before Bobby takes them out.

Bobby glares at him.

Dean glares back.

"Damn fool idjit," Bobby grumbles, prosthetic legs whirring loudly as he stomps heavily around the mausoleum. "Gonna get hisself murdered by a manticore one of these days."

"Could you make any more noise over there, old man?" Dean yells at him.

"SHUT UP AND GET YOUR OXYGEN TANK OUT OF THE CAR," Bobby roars. "And don't you bitch about these heavy, piece of crap circus-legs of mine, either, at least I'm fully mobile. Unlike I could say for some." He pauses, reloads his gun and gives Dean the patented _John Winchester Disapproving Father Look_. "Does your brother know you've gone out of your damned mind?" he demands. "Running all over the place trying to die faster than cancer can take you?"

"I hate staying in bed all day," Dean retorts. "And I'm in remission again, anyway. I think. Can't remember what my doctor was saying, I kept staring at her chest. Gorgeous woman, legs up to--"

"Shut up and check the wards," Bobby snaps. "And the next time you decide to go off on a hunt without telling anybody, you'd better check yourself out of the hospital proper. I don't want them calling me up at the home and yelling about how my grandson's gone and disappeared, you hear?"

"Yessir," Dean salutes, only half-sarcastically. Trained FBSI agents usually have to attend the seminar on why they shouldn't sass the director and founder, because they are idjits and only idjits wanna piss off Special Agent Bobby Singer, sir. Being sick got him out of the last one, though. "Whatever you say, sir," he adds, this time not sarcastically at all.

Bobby readjusts his hat.

\--

"Hey, buddy, how are you doing?" Sam asks, patting Dean's hand reassuringly.

Dean lies in bed and does his best to look feeble. "I'm so weak, Sammy," he says faintly. "They won't bring me any pie."

A single, solitary tear tracks down his face.

"It's okay, Dean," Sam says, squeezing his brother's hand. "Don't you worry, Cas and I will bring you pie-- Cas? Why are you laughing? Bobby? Is there something I don't know?"

When Sam realizes that Dean's joking, he threatens to hit him with a bedpan.

\--

Advances in medical technology -- plus, the FBSI's bitchin' health care benefits -- mean that Dean's as healthy as a horse half the time, and puking his guts out the other half of the time. It would be far easier to stay in the hospital, which may in part be the reason that Dean decides to get back on the road.

"Dean," Sam says, seriously. "This is the stupidest idea you have ever had in your entire life. Lives. Whatever."

Dean shrugs. "So, are you coming or not, Sammy?" He asks.

\--

Hitting the road after so long doesn't feel like a chore, doesn't feel like a hassle. It feels right, even if they are all crammed in too tightly in the Impala, and Dean always bitches when it's Castiel's turn to drive. They could each drive their own vehicles, but that's not the same at all. It doesn't feel as safe, doesn't feel as much like family.

"Stop whining," Dean yells.

"He's touching me," Castiel says, at the same time Sam shouts, "I am NOT."

"I am going to have to pull this car over and bitch-slap the both of you into next week if you don't freakin' stop it already!" Dean yells, and then he spies the lights in the window. "Shit," he swears, pulling over.

"This is why you should have just sat in the front," Sam hisses in Castiel's ear. "He never speeds when you're in the front!"

"You're not wearing your seat belt," Castiel snaps.

"Hi," Dean says, smiling as he attempts to charm the cop who pulled them over. "Is there a problem, officer?"

She looks at Sam and Cas having a slap-fight in the back seat like children, and then returns her stare to Dean's slightly glazed smile. "Do you have a permit to carry that firearm, sir?" She asks, spying it in his shoulder holster.

"Uh, yes," Dean says. "I do, most definitely have a permit for this one." He smiles awkwardly. "I can show you the permits for every weapon in this vehicle, officer. I keep the permits in the glove compartment."

"License and registration, please," she says, still giving Dean the stink-eye. "And I'll take a look at those permits as well." She grabs all the paperwork and heads back to the squad car, presumably to check everything individually, which means they might be here for a while.

"Dean," Sam whispers from the back seat. "I think she likes you! Go for it!"

Cas elbows him in the side.

"Seriously, the two of you -- I will turn this car around and then _kill you with a shovel and bury you at a crossroads_ if you don't chill the fuck out-- Hello again, Officer," Dean says, still smiling. "Everything in order?"

"Were you aware you were traveling at 90 miles per hour in a 70 zone?" She checks his license again, "Special Agent Milton?"

"I'm very sorry, Officer," Dean says. "We're on official business, I should have put the lights on."

She stares at him, then hands back the ID and nods. "Very well. Watch your speed, Special Agent," she snaps, before heading back to her vehicle.

\--

"Happy birthday, Bobby!" Dean yells, hugging the old man as tightly as he can. "You're officially older than dinosaurs!"

"Get inside, y'idjit." Bobby snaps, shoving at Dean. "You better have brought me bourbon like you promised, or I'm gonna have you tossed outside on your ass."

"Aww, Bobby," Dean sighs. "Is that any way to treat a man who just got a clean bill of health?"

"What?" Sam shouts, showing up behind Dean and yelping loudly enough to set off Bobby's hearing aid. "What do you mean?

"I'm in remission, baby!" Dean announces, turning around to hug Sam. "Just got the news yesterday. I'm officially cancer-free!"

\--

The party lasts until four in the morning, because Bobby's always celebrated like a maniac.

"A hundred and sixteen years old," Castiel says. "That is quite an accomplishment."

Bobby glares at the angel. "What in the hell are you talking about? You don't compliment someone on their ability to not die, that's just stupid. Now, surviving the apocalypse, regaining the use of my legs, training a bunch of idiot FBSI agents to hunt monsters, those are accomplishments. Don't you lump me in with a bunch of morons who haven't done nothing else in their lives but eat and live off their daddy's money, boy."

Castiel considers this, then nods. "Yes," he agrees. "You have accomplished more in your lifetime than most could accomplish in two," he says. "I commend you on your accomplishments, Robert Singer."

"Thank you," Bobby says, raising his glass in a salute.

"Although you may want to remember that I'm at least six thousand years older than you are," Castiel adds. "So perhaps you shouldn't call me 'boy'."

"Perhaps," Bobby concedes. "But that don't make you any less of an idjit, though."

\--

Two weeks after they celebrated his hundred-and-sixteenth birthday, Bobby Singer goes to bed and never wakes up.

\--

Amelia dies in her sleep two years later. Castiel knows because he has kept watch over her, the woman Jimmy loves, for the last decades of her life.

He doesn't know what to do, now that his charge to take care of her is gone. He doesn't go to the funeral, although he visits Claire afterward.

"I'm sorry," he says. "If I could have saved her--"

"It's okay, Castiel." Claire says. "Old people die. She was old. It won't be that long until I'm gone, too."

Claire is 86 years old. Castiel has taken care of her for the duration of his entire stay on earth. He does not want her to die.

"How are you?" Claire asks.

Castiel wraps his arms around her, hugs her tightly. She's still strong, still healthy, but there's a certain fragility about her now that she's gotten so much older. In his mind's eye, Claire is still eleven years old, eleven years old and fearless.

"I'm well."

Claire places her hand over his heart, smiling up at him. Her eyes are blue, the same blue as Jimmy's. For a moment, he thinks he can feel Jimmy's presence, but then it's gone and Castiel is alone in his vessel once more.

"How's Dad?" Claire asks, because she asks every time they see each other.

Castiel gives her his usual answer, "Jimmy is with me."

For the first time, he feels like the words are a lie.

\--

The doctors tell Dean he has pancreatic cancer.

"This is why I hate hospitals, you know," Dean replies, sighing. "They're always giving me bad news. How bad is it?"

He spends six months in the hospital, bitching to Sam about the food and making a lot of morbid, totally-not-funny jokes. "Come on, lighten up, Sammy," he says, poking Sam's side to get rid of his bitchface. Sam mostly just mopes around the room and gives Dean sad puppy eyes, like it was Dean's idea to get cancer.

"Seriously, stop moping around, you're starting to depress me." Dean sighs. "If fifteen years with cancer can't get me down, how the hell can five minutes with your face?"

Sam's lower lip quavers.

"Shit, I'm sorry, Sammy, I didn't mean--"

"Nah, I'm just messing with you." Sam grins. "Oh, hey, bought you the latest issue of Busty Asians."

"You're still a whiny bitch," Dean says, grabbing the magazine.

Shrugging, Sam waves as he leaves the room. "And you're still a jerk!"

\--

The nurses all think Dean is brave and funny and noble, and a bunch of other totally not true things, which is why after five months of hearing all that crap, Sam is morally obliged to start messing with them. Because Dean is an asshole. He tells everyone a different story, starting with a tearful recounting of how Dean had saved him from robbers, and ending with a two-week stretch where he called Dean _Daddy_ and held his hand a lot.

"Oh, he's not really my dad," Sam says to Linda, the night nurse. "I mean, some people like to call him my sugar-Daddy, but we're not biologically related or anything." He smiles brightly.

Technically it's not even a lie.

It does, however, result in the most hilarious of indignant expressions from the nurses at the station, and then Dean starts getting a lot more enemas than might be strictly necessary. He only notices that something is up when the nurses on duty stop flirting with him, even when he flashes his killer grin at them and tells them about the time he and his team at the FBSI saved a bunch of kittens from a manticore.

"This place sucks," Dean says, after six months have gone by and he hasn't gotten any better. He's completely bald from the treatment, and staying inactive for six months has put him in one hell of a bitchy mood. "Let's get out of here."

\--

Dean dies at sixty-seven, not from pancreatic cancer (stage two) but because he lost a fight to a werewolf.

"Shit, Sammy," he chokes, lying on the ground. Sam's holding on to him as tightly as he can, trying to stop Dean from trembling. "This... fucking sucks."

"Don't die, Dean. Don't do this to me!" Sam sobs, almost a yell.

"Bastard doctor," Dean mumbles into Sam's side. "Told me I'd die of cancer. He's a fuckin' liar, Sammy, you ought to sue."

"Come on, Dean," Sam sobs. "You're gonna be fine, you're gonna make it. We can stop the bleeding, I know we can..."

Dean shakes violently. "I don't--- Don't wanna die of cancer, Sammy," he says, closing his eyes. "This is better-- it's okay." And then he exhales one last time.

"No," Sam cries. "No, no -- Dean, Dean, come back..."

\--

After Dean's funeral, Sam cries for two hours. His shoulders shake with the force of it.

"Patience, Sam," Castiel says, resting a hand on the back of Samuel's neck. "Patience. He won't leave us for very long."

\--

A month later, when Sam opens the door, he spies Gabriel, who is sporting a shit-eating grin and hiding both of his hands behind his back.

"Um," Sam says.

"I brought you a present!" Gabriel announces brightly, before enveloping Sam in a tight hug.

Sam doesn't really have a choice, so he lets the Trickster-angel into the house, warily watching as he makes his way into the kitchen. "Um," he says again, and Castiel appears in front of him with a concerned expression.

"Sam, I detected an-- Oh, it's you." Castiel relaxes, waving hello to Gabriel and disappearing again without another word.

This would be an awesome time to remember how to make real sentences, Sam decides. "Gabriel?" he says, hesitantly.

Gabriel wanders out of the kitchen, holding a large glass pitcher in both of his arms. "Don't you want to see him?" he demands.

"Of course I do!" Sam protest, before his mind catches up and he realizes that he has no idea at all what the Trickster-angel is referring to. "Wait, what-- who am I supposed to be seeing?"

He's treated to a very hurt look.

Gabriel's puppy-eyes are almost as heartbreaking as Castiel's. Sam caves immediately. "Of course I'm very excited," Sam tells him, earnestly. "I can't wait."

Mollified for the moment, Gabriel presents Sam with the giant pitcher of water. Sam takes it, hoping that the angel doesn't expect him to drink it, because he's not really all that thirsty.

"I brought you your brother!" Gabriel announces, smiling brightly.

"Gabriel," Sam says, carefully. "This is a goldfish."

"Hey! That goldfish is your brother, you shouldn't talk about him as if he isn't here!"

Sam stares down at the pitcher of water, and the goldfish happily swimming in circles. "Dean?" he says.

The goldfish ignores him.

Yup. Probably Dean.

\--

"Dean," Castiel repeats, eyeing the goldfish.

The angel's left eye makes an aborted twitching movement, and his expression is one that Sam can definitely relate to. It's an expression that says _I Want Nothing More Than To Shoot My Brother In The Face,_ or possibly _I Cannot Believe I Am Related To That Idiot._

"Yes," Sam buries his head in his arms and wishes that he could take back the words. But the words will not be taken back, no matter how hard he tries, and every time he has to say it he wants to beat his head against a wall.

"I really do not understand why you two are pissed at me," Gabriel says sadly.

\--

The Dean-fish lives in a small aquarium. It has colourful pebbles on the bottom, and a little statuette shaped like a topless mermaid with bright orange stars over her nipples. Sam thinks it's the best fit for Dean's surroundings, even though he personally thinks it's tacky.

The aquarium is set up on a sturdy ledge in the living room. There isn't much else that Sam and Castiel can do with Dean -- he's not a brilliant conversationalist, and he's worse than useless on a hunt. So, the fish stays in its aquarium, sitting on its ledge and looking pretty.

Without discussing it, Sam and Cas both visit with the Dean-fish every day and talk to him for a few minutes so he doesn't feel alone. Sometimes the Dean-fish will blow bubbles at Cas, but he mostly swims around ignoring them. Sam secretly gets the feeling that Dean prefers the company of his skanky mermaid statue, anyway.

The second night they have the fish, Sam wakes up around two o'clock in the morning. Something is bothering him. He walks downstairs in his bare feet, flicking on the light in the living room. He stares at the fish for a few moments. The fish stares back.

Sam goes back to bed, but he leaves the light on, just in case the Dean-fish has nightmares.

The next day, he searches through the attic until he finds his old night-light. Then, he plugs it in beside the tank and leaves it there.

 

  


illustration by [](http://sleepwalker1015.livejournal.com/profile)[**sleepwalker1015**](http://sleepwalker1015.livejournal.com/)  


\--

Two weeks later, Gabriel contacts Sam by appearing in front of him right when he's stepping out of the shower. Sam yelps, trips over the shower curtain, and almost cracks his head open on the tub when Gabriel catches him.

"You should be more careful," Gabriel says.

Sam closes his eyes and counts to ten. "Gabriel," he says. "Can you please let me go?"

Gabriel thinks about this. "No," he decides. "I like you."

"I'm naked. I'm naked and _wet_. I'm naked, and I'm wet, and _my brother is a fish_." Sam feels like his entire life is a game of let's-point-out-the-obvious sometimes.

Gabriel leers at him. "I like you this way."

Shoving an angel is absolutely useless, but Sam's stare has been competing with Castiel's for quite a while, and eventually Gabriel concedes the point and hands Sam a towel. "Did you want to talk about something?" Sam asks, wrapping the towel around his waist and bravely attempting not to cover his nipples with his hands.

"They're very nice nipples," Gabriel offers.

Deep breaths, Sam reminds himself, and then he says in his Calm Voice, "No mind-reading, Gabriel. That's rude."

"Oh. Right. Sorry."

Gabriel does not look sorry at all, and instead proceeds do the equivalent of mentally undressing Sam, which is awkward because he's already mostly naked. It has the interesting effect of having Sam feel like Gabriel is mentally cataloguing all the sexual positions he'd like to try and put Sam in, and from the sudden grin on Gabriel's face, that's not too far off the mark. _No mind reading!_ Sam thinks furiously, and Gabriel shrugs.

"Did you want to talk about something?" Sam repeats.

If the expression on Gabriel's face has anything to say about it, the thought hadn't even crossed his mind. "Yes?" he says, clearly lying.

"You..." Sam runs his hands through his wet hair, and then he decides that he can't deal with this while he can still make all three of the ridiculous statements that make up his life. "Come on," he sighs, stepping out of the bathroom and opening his bedroom door. "I'm getting dressed."

Gabriel wanders in after him, looking amused at the posters on the wall and the various things scattered around the room. "What's this?" he asks, poking at Sam's Blackberry. "Does it have an Internet?"

Sam finds clothes and gets dressed as quickly as he can, trying to ignore Gabriel's sad noises and commentary on how attractive he finds Sam's body. "Look, Gabriel -- if you had something important to talk about, you would have gone to Cas, right?"

Puppy-eyes again. Sam feels like the second Dean dies and gets reincarnated as a goldfish, he is surrounded by kicked puppies. Angelic ones.

"I just-- I need to make sure that nobody is going to die," he adds, awkwardly.

"Nobody is going to die."

"So we can go get something to eat, right?"

Gabriel perks up like Sam had just suggested they break out the chocolate body paint. "That's not a bad idea," he says, and then he looks thoughtful. "Where do you buy chocolate-- wait, right, no mind reading. I forgot," he adds.

"There's a diner around the corner, we could--"

"This one?"

The people in the diner are, at the very least, used to Castiel teleporting around like he's Nightcrawler. One look at Sam and people stop being interested in whoever just popped in.

"So," Sam says, awkwardly. "You turned my brother into a fish."

Gabriel sighs. "In my defence, I didn't know that most goldfish only have a lifespan of a few months. If anything, I thought he'd last until it was time to get a new one."

"A new Dean?"

"A new Sam-and-Dean!" Gabriel grins. "Reincarnated as twins, doesn't that sound fun? I even cleared it with the guys upstairs. You won't be separated at all, even get to share a womb! That's got to be exciting."

"I think you might be insane." Sam shouldn't be, but he's kind of impressed.

Gabriel shrugs. "I try. Is the pie here any good?"

\--

"You don't need to make up excuses to come and see me, you know," Sam says. "If you ever just want -- some company, or something. It's alright if you're lonely."

Gabriel grins at him. "Really, Sam? You wouldn't mind?"

"Nah, it's cool. I like you."

\--

"Huh," Sam says. Gabriel is sleepy and cuddled up to him, clingy and nosing softly at the hollow of Sam's throat. "Hey, Gabriel?"

"Mmm," Gabriel mumbles.

"Just-- I'm not complaining or anything, because that was awesome. But. You know I meant that you should drop by for a beer if you just wanted to hang out. That wasn't an invitation to booty-call me any time you were in the mood."

"Mmm?" Gabriel replies.

"Yeah, okay, fine, maybe it was," Sam grumbles.

\--

The Dean-fish lives to be six years old, and when he finally passes on, Sam finds himself unaccountably emotional about it.

"I know he was just a fish," Sam sobs quietly, "but it was like he was my family, you know?"

The barista looks terrified. "Here's your coffee, sir!" she says again, clearly upset.

"Thanks for listening," Sam says, wiping away his tears. "I knew you'd understand."

She gives him an uneasy smile.

\--

Castiel walks into the kitchen, sees a half-naked Sam curled around an equally dishevelled Gabriel, both of them lying on top of the remnants of their now-broken table. Peanut butter has spilled out of the jar, onto the floor. He stops in his tracks, blinks, and then winks out of existence before Sam has a chance to explain the situation.

"What were you going to say?" Gabriel muses, yawning. He stretches like a cat, then wraps his leg more securely around Sam's waist and cuddles right back against him. " _'Sorry, Cas, I accidentally slipped and landed on Gabriel's cock. Care to join us?'_ Actually, that's not a bad idea, he might go for that..."

"I think there's probably a more delicate way to phrase it," Sam groans, his head thumping back onto the broken wood of the table. "Seriously, I think this might be almost as embarrassing as the time Dean walked in on me-- well. Anyway. Dean had his camera-phone on him, I didn't stop hearing about it for--"

Castiel reappears in the middle of the kitchen only long enough for both Gabriel and Sam to register the noise of an electronic shutter in a quick burst, and the bright light of the flash blinding him temporarily, before the angel winks out of existence once more.

"I think he's learned a few things," Gabriel murmurs, grudgingly impressed. He swipes idly at a smear of peanut butter on his shoulder and then pops his thumb into his mouth. "Spent too much time with that trouble-making brother of yours, I think."

"Yeah," Sam agrees, blinking spots out of his eyes. He has no idea where an Angel of the Lord might keep his SD card, but it looks like now would be a good time to find out... and erase the evidence before Dean gets back and starts a website. "Did you show him how to put the camera on burst?"

"Yup, sure did."

\--

When Sam dies, Castiel spends a year by himself.

Without anyone to bicker with on the road, he loses his taste for the hunt. Killing monsters has no satisfaction, no matter how many lives he saves. He switches to a desk job at the FBSI, and when he finds himself staring at a requisition form for rock salt rounds (now considered standard) he decides that someone else can do it.

He takes a leave of absence.

He travels to Rome, but he's been there before, so he ends up cutting the trip short and visiting Paris. Paris is extremely boring, the French people treat him like a tourist, and the tourists are always asking him for directions.

Castiel visits Madrid, and Egypt, and Milan.

He gets bored and counts the bricks in the Great Wall, but he loses track halfway through and gives up.

A trek through the Amazon isn't nearly as exciting as it sounds.

Neither is exploring Mars.

Jupiter's moons are beautiful, but he finds himself missing Sam and Dean and Earth.

A year after Sam dies, Castiel goes to visit his brother.

\--

Gabriel takes one look at him, sighs, and says, "Dammit, Castiel, you've been on earth for how many years, now?"

Castiel shrugs.

"And you still haven't tried recreational drugs, had sex with a woman, ridden on a pony, fought a dragon, had a hovercraft race, battled a velociraptor..." Gabriel groans. "Come on, bro, I'm going to teach you a thing or two about having fun."

\--

Castiel and Gabriel spend a couple of years learning how to bicker like brothers. They get to be very, very good at it.

\--

Castiel spends a lot of time alone. He amuses himself by leaving obnoxious voicemail messages on Gabriel's phone, but he doesn't try to find his brother. If Gabriel doesn't want to be found, he isn't going to be found. Definitely not by Castiel, no matter how used to each other's company they might have grown accustomed.

Not knowing what else to do, Castiel begins to methodically search the planet for any sign of Sam or Dean's souls.

"Hello, Gabriel, I am calling to leave you a message," he says solemnly into his cell phone. Voicemail again, which means Gabriel is screening his calls and hiding out somewhere. "It's been a long time since I last heard your voice. Here is a thought to ponder: when the Winchesters were alive and still Winchesters, do you think that you would have been able to seduce both brothers into bed at the same time? Just wondering. Call me back."

Gabriel calls back just to yell at him.

\--

After spending nine days watching an old TV show on blu-ray, Castiel and Gabriel sit in the little café they’ve picked for breakfast, arguing loudly over which character they thought was the best. Castiel was steadfastly defending Mac, and Gabriel was insisting on Harm. The debate had lasted for eight and a half days, and was still ongoing, as neither side was willing to concede.

For the most part, they're just bickering pleasantly while waiting for their food to settle.

“Hmmm,” Castiel says, setting down his coffee mug. “Hey, what... What was that?” He motions with his head to someone on the street. Gabriel turns in his seat to look.

“That, dear brother, was a goofy-looking ginger kid. What about it?”

Castiel doesn’t comment on Gabriel referring to a little boy as ‘it’. “That is not all,” he murmurs. Tossing a twenty on the table, he stands to leave. Gabriel drains his glass of chocolate milk (with extra chocolate!) and follows, grabbing up the jacket Castiel had forgotten in his rush.

“Hello, pardon the intrusion,” Castiel says to the woman holding the arm of the red-headed boy he’d seen out the window. “But can you tell me how to get to Windmill Creek Road from here?”

Gabriel frowns and hangs back. He isn’t entirely sure what Castiel is doing, considering they’d agreed they weren’t stopping in this town for long. _Unless..._ Gabriel squints the little boy, who notices and sticks his tongue out.

"I'm sorry," the woman explains, smiling apologetically. "I'm afraid I'm new in town, I'm not sure where to find anything myself." She chats with Castiel for a moment, while Gabriel stares at the freckle-faced monster she's holding on to. A minute later, she apologizes for her son’s rude behaviour and they continue walking up the street.

Castiel smiles, waiting for a moment before beginning to walk in the same direction. Jogging to catch up to him, Gabriel is just about to ask what exactly Castiel's so goofy-happy about when he overhears the woman from before admonishing her son.

“Dean, really, we’ve only just moved here and you've already started to make a bad impression. Would it kill you to pretend to be well-behaved, at least until Mommy has some friends? Honestly, you are such a handful.”

Gabriel grins too.

\--

Castiel buys a house in town. Gabriel rolls his eyes and refuses call it anything other than _'Castiel's sad pathetic nest of loneliness'_ although he is apparently all too happy to fill the freezer with various flavours of ice cream and the cupboards with butterscotch pudding.

They don’t see much of little red-headed Dean, because although he and his new mother only live a block away, Castiel doesn't have any excuse to interact with them, so he's reduced to making polite conversation in the grocery store. He's worried that Dean's mother might take his interest in her the wrong way, though, which is why he stops himself from inviting her out to movies or shows that he thinks Dean would enjoy.

Gabriel continues to fill his kitchen cupboards with sweets. One day, Castiel opens the bathroom medicine cabinet and Skittles rain down onto the counter.

"Gabriel," Castiel says, staring at the scattered rainbow-coloured candy. "This needs to stop."

\--

Castiel ends his leave of absence from the FBSI, mostly because he likes having a routine. It's easy to fall into the normal parameters of everyday life when he has an office to go to every morning and a crazed sugar-high trickster-archangel of a brother to go home to every evening. It reminds him of the years when he had been raising Samuel, although an adult Gabriel is much more trouble than any human child could ever hope to be.

"You know," Castiel says, eating another pudding cup. "If we were human, this would be a very unhealthy diet."

"Mmm," Gabriel moans, adding sprinkles to his pie.

\--

A new family moves in next door to Castiel's house. Castiel meets them as he is returning home from work. As he is about to unlock the front door, a car pulls into the next driveway and the man who gets out pulls a small child from the back seat.

“Sami!” the man calls as the little girl runs right across Castiel’s lawn and plants her brightly coloured rain boots firmly in the flower bed. “Come on back here!”

“My name is Sami, and I’m seven years old, and when I grow up I'm going to be a ballerina-engineer-lawyer-astronaut. That's a lawyer who can build rocket-ships so that I can dance in space,” the child announces, proudly. “I'm also gonna be president. What’s your name?”

“I am Castiel,” says Castiel, holding back a smile. Even in this tiny, rambunctious, female form, Sam’s spirit is easily identifiable. Although, the aspirations to be an engineer are new. The rest of it had all surfaced in one form or another before.

“That’s a good name." Sami says, importantly. "My daddy's name is Qiang but everybody except my mommy calls him Dave. I like your coat. Do you want to play cowboys?”

The man scoops her up, apologizing profusely. "I'm really sorry, sir," he says. "She's very energetic but she's not a bother at all, I promise -- we're really very quiet, it's just that today has been so busy--"

“It’s fine,” Castiel assures him. “Really. It was nice to meet you, Sami. Perhaps we can play cowboys another day,” he tells Sami.

She beams at him.

\--

Gabriel looks outside the window, spies Sami playing on the swing set in her back yard, and there is something in him that lights up fully and completely, glorious to Castiel's angelic sight. Gabriel's soul glows, and it is apparent to Castiel that Gabriel recognizes Sam Winchester's soul.

"Whatever it is that you are thinking," Castiel says, scooping butterscotch pudding into his mouth with two fingers and sucking the sticky sweet stuff off. "It is most likely a horrifyingly bad idea."

Gabriel turns to him, eyes alight with gleeful trickster-y anticipation. "But Cas," he says, smiling. "You haven't even heard my plan yet!"

\--

It is an awful plan. Castiel listens intently, because Gabriel seems very excited about it, but that is the truth plain and simple.

"Don't you see? This is the best way to keep an eye on Sam and Dean while they’re growing up without seeming like pedophiles! Because let’s be honest, you in that trench coat, hanging around the monkey bars behind the school just seems unwholesome.” Gabriel says earnestly.

"And a six-thousand-year-old archangel pretending to be a school-age child is somehow preferable." Castiel says with a raised eyebrow. "I fail to see the logic in your plan."

 

"See, if you'd had a normal childhood, you would probably not wear the trench coat all the time," Gabriel adds.

"I will stop wearing the coat if you will forget about this exceedingly awful and despicable plan," is Castiel's counter-offer, which Gabriel carefully considers for a few moments.

"How about," he suggests, slowly. "How about you get to keep an eye on me? You can tell everyone that your ex-wife had custody until now, and that I'm your son."

This plan is less obviously stupid, but Castiel feels that there is a flaw that he's not quite seeing just yet. "I would be responsible for you, in that case," he says, and he can practically see Gabriel deflate.

Against his better judgement, Castiel sighs and then, before he can change his mind, he says, "We're going to have to lay down some ground rules, Gabriel."

Beaming, Gabriel nods enthusiastically, his form shifting and melting until he appears to be a much younger version of himself, golden-haired and almost cherubic in appearance. "Sure thing!" he chirps, childishly high voice filled with joy. "I mean, sure thing, _Daddy,_ " and then Castiel feels an overwhelming sense of foreboding.

There is no way that this is going to end well.

\--

Castiel finds himself holding Gabriel's hand and walking to the house next door, holding a plate of brownies and wearing an anxious smile in addition to his normal ensemble.

"Hi there, neighbour," Dave says with a smile. It's the same man that had greeted him before, and Castiel feels no small measure of relief, knowing that he has already been properly introduced.

"I hope that you do not mind," Castiel says, holding out the plateful of brownies as he restrains Gabriel with one hand. "But it appears that my son is going to be staying with me for a while, and he wanted to play. With a friend. Preferably one close to his own age," and before Castiel can say any more, he's being ushered into the house by a grateful-looking Dave, who accepts the brownies graciously as the bribe they are intended to be.

"They're exhausting at that age," Dave says, gratefully chewing on a brownie. "I know how you feel, Sami can wear me out and then she's still got ten hours of play left in her. Much better to let them exhaust themselves than try to keep up."

Gabriel and Sami pretend to be cowboys, and then Gabriel shows Sami the magic trick he can do that make Oreos appear in her pockets, and then Gabriel tells Sami that he will visit her when she lives on Jupiter, and then it is time to return home.

Gabriel rests his head on Castiel's shoulder and falls asleep, like a child, tiny and innocent. It is strange to hold him like this, to know that beneath the diminutive human shell there is a powerful archangel, more powerful than Castiel himself. And yet, like this, Gabriel is trusting and vulnerable.

Castiel doesn't wake him. He puts him to bed and draws the covers over him, and wonders how long he will be able to pretend to be a father. He would not want to admit it out loud -- he could not tell Sam, or Dean -- but he enjoyed the conversation with Sami's father, enjoyed talking about raising children. It was the first time that he'd felt as if he really fit in, in a very long time.

\--

It's recess time at Grandview Elementary School and the school yard bullies are picking on the new kids. First it was Sami, the new girl in second grade. They make fun of her short hair and her slanted eyes, and the fact that all her clothes are neon colours. She cries, and that's a great response from a seven year old girl, but the bullies wanted something more.

"They're going to beat you up," Sami whispers furiously to her best friend, while still wiping at her runny nose. "Cause they're big stupid-head bullies and you're new at school just like me."

"Just let them try," Gabriel says, exuding far more confidence than a first grader should have. "I'll smite them out of existence." He makes tiny fists out of his hands to show her.

The bullies find him and they make fun of his height -- and lack thereof -- and his sticking-up-all-over hair and the weird way he talks. Gabriel ignores them, instead entertaining Sami by pulling magic Oreos form the space behind her ear. When they haven't managed to get a response from him, they shove him hard, sending him sprawling face-first into the sand box.

Dusting sand off his elbows, and leaving the dirty Oreos where they'd landed, Gabriel stands up very slowly. He turns to the tallest bully. "You really did not want to do that. I'm really sorry about your luck, but you picked the wrong new kid to mess with today." He raises his hand, either to hit someone or something worse, but before he can, a tall shadow falls over the sand box.

"Are you jerks actually picking on first graders?" a voice says, coming from well above any of their heads. "One of them is even a girl. That doesn't seem very nice."

"Run! It's Dean!" hisses one of the bullies. They all flee.

"Those assholes are just dumb," scowls the very tall, very red-headed Dean. Holding out a hand to Sami and another to Gabriel, he doesn't even seem to notice that he used a Bad Word. "It's hard to be the new kid. My advice? Don't use the drinking fountain next to the music room." And with those helpful, albeit random, words of wisdom, Dean is gone again.

"Wow," breathes Sami, turning to Gabriel. "He was so cool!"

"Yeah," Gabriel grumbles. "If you like that kind of thing."

\--

Gabriel decides to pitch an epic temper tantrum in the candy aisle of the grocery store, complete with screaming, crying, and holding his breath until he turns blue. This is accompanied with throwing himself to the ground and flailing about, as well as a truly impressive bout of profanity.

Castiel waits it out.

"Are you finished?" he asks.

Gabriel grins and then takes the proffered handkerchief. "I've always wanted to do that," he says. "It's really fun. You should give it a try, Cas!"

"Maybe some other time," Castiel says, which is code for Never In A Million Years.

"Can we buy pudding?" Gabriel asks.

"Yes."

"And chocolate chips?"

"Yes."

"And a pony?"

"We are not getting a pony, Gabriel."

\--

Sami sits next to Gabriel in class, and she shares her crayons and her notebooks. Gabriel gives her half of his snack every day, because she is his best friend and because she always smiles when he has more than one package of Oreos in his lunchbox. He gives her the creamy half of the Oreo when he has to chose, because it makes Sami blush and kick her tiny feet bashfully.

"When I grow up," Sami says, starry-eyed as she watches the older boys playing basketball during recess. "I'm gonna marry Dean. And I'm going to wear a pretty white dress and get two puppies and the puppies are going to be named Batman and Superman."

Gabriel gives her the cream half of his Oreo. "Yeah," he says, not looking at Sami. He stares down at his shoes.

"But you can come too, Gabriel." Sami says, putting her hand on top of his. "You're my best friend. I wouldn't go anywhere without you."

Gabriel finishes his cookie, before he looks down at their clasped hands. "Yeah," he agrees, a little more enthusiastically. "You're my best friend, too, Sami."

\--

"Gabriel, put that down this instant or you will not like what happens next," Castiel snaps. Gabriel looks appropriately reprimanded and puts the bag of marshmallows back on the shelf. A lady further up the aisle smiles to Cas.

"How old?" she asks, inclining her head.

"Old enough to know better," Castiel replies truthfully.

Gabriel is walking along beside Castiel. When they are grocery shopping, it is his job to hold the list. "What's next?" Castiel asks him.

"Spaghetti sauce," Gabriel grumbles. "I don't know why we can't get marshmallows. Spaghetti is dumb."

Castiel stops pushing the cart again and looks at Gabriel with his Very Serious Face. "Are marshmallows on our list?"

Petulantly staring at the marshmallow display, Gabriel raises one shoulder and drops it, a pointedly angry gesture.

"Gabriel!" he snaps again. "Are marshmallows on the list of groceries we need today?"

"No..." Gabriel mumbles, looking at his feet.

Castiel crouches in front of him and holds Gabriel's chin firmly in his hand. "Am I in charge here or are you?"

"...You," Gabriel says, pulling away and crossing his arms. "But only because I agreed. Doesn't mean you have to treat me like a child, Castiel."

"They're so wilful at that age, aren't they?" the woman remarks.

"You really don't know the half of it," Castiel sighs.

\--

Sami's first kiss is at the age of fourteen, with a boy named Joe, who slobbers on her face and is promptly shoved away. "It was absolutely disgusting," she tells Gabriel, who laughs. "It was like, ew, spit everywhere and stuff. He licked my chin. It was gross."

"That's definitely not right," Gabriel agrees.

"I just wish it wasn't so... icky," she confides. "Is kissing always like that, do you think?"

"Um," Gabriel says, eyes wide. "I mean, no? I don't think. I wouldn't know."

"Liar." Sami says, bumping his shoulder. "You've kissed lots of girls, I know. You kissed Sarah Jacobs last year at the Halloween dance, and she told everyone that you were good at it."

That statement makes Gabriel blush. "I wasn't gonna do anything else," he finally says, guiltily, his cheeks still bright pink. "I just wanted her to know that I liked her."

"Kiss me," Sami says.

"What? No."

"Fine," Sami snaps, turning away. "Whatever, you don't have to. Go kiss Sarah Jacobs, since you like her so much--"

"Hey!" Gabriel shouts. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well you like her better than me, right? That's why you kissed her, and you won't kiss me." Sami says, her lower lip wavering. "So maybe she should be your best friend instead of me, because you like her better. And then I won't have anybody to be my friend, and you can go -- drop out of the Mathletes and let me be a loser all by myself--"

"You're not a loser, Sami." Gabriel says, stuffing his hands in his pockets and looking miserable. "I like you better'n anyone in the whole wide world, you know that. I'm not going anywhere," and he frees one hand to put it on her elbow. "I just-- I don't think -- I shouldn't kiss you, Sami. It's not... you don't like me, not like you like Dean, or like you used to like Joe, right?"

Sami rolls her eyes. "I like you better'n anybody, Gabe. You're my best friend." And because she finally has him where she wants him, she wraps both arms around his neck and stares into his eyes, the same level as hers. "So," Sami says, firmly. "Kiss me, stupid."

\--

When Sami remembers, she blushes redder than anything and slaps Gabriel across the shoulder. "I cannot believe you let me go to prom with Dean."

He shrugs and grins, stretching out of his twenty year old body and back into a more familiar form. "You have such a crush on him, though, and you were so excited."

"He's my brother, man, and I was going to... You know..." Sami waggles her eyebrows. "Do stuff."

Gabriel's gasp is absolutely scandalized. "You mean you _didn't?_ "

Sami rolls her eyes. "Well he kind of said no. Even after I took off most of my clothes and straddled him on the bed.

Laughing so hard he can feel tears welling up in his eyes, Gabriel shoves her off her chair. "Slut."

She kicks him in the shin. "Dumbass," she counters, grinning.

\--

After Dean and Sami pass away, Castiel and Gabriel head over to Scotland and spend five years pretending to haunt a castle.

"You really like the Winchesters, don't you?" Castiel asks him offhandedly one day.

"They aren't really Winchesters anymore," Gabriel scoffs. "I mean, not really."

"You're avoiding the question!"

"Well, you're asking dumb questions!"

"It's not dumb!" Castiel protests. " _You're_ dumb. And hey, if you at least admit your helpless crush on Sam Winchester, I promise I'll tell you everything he's ever said about you when you weren't there."

Gabriel glares at him for a long moment, and then he puffs away in a flurry of snowflakes.

He appears two minutes later, this time in a burst of glitter and birdsong. "Okay, so maybe I have a-little-bit-of-a-stupid-crush-on-the-stupid-Winchester, so _does he like me?_ "

They stare at each other.

"Wait, what?" Castiel says, confused. "I was just teasing you, Gabriel."

"I knew that!" Gabriel snaps.

Castiel grabs Gabriel by the shoulder before he can fly away. "Gabriel," he says, very seriously. "You are my brother. And I love you. And I want you to be happy."

Gabriel glares at him, half-heartedly. "You don't mind?"

"I said I'd share," Castiel says. "I didn't say I was going to let you keep him. Now, do you want me to tell you everything he's ever said about you, or not?"

"Yeah." Gabriel says, feigning nonchalance.

"Good." Castiel straightens his tie. "Before we begin, we will require refreshments. Beer, I think. And pie. And we should stop in Italy and get some pizza."

\--

He finds Sam first. Dean is not very hard to find after that, because he is in the same stroller, but Sam's soul is in the child he sees first, and Castiel stops in his tracks to stare.

"Oh," the woman pushing the pram stops and laughs. "Yes, I know what you're thinking -- but they're not identical. Fraternal twins."

"Ah," Castiel says, staring at the infants. "They're... very healthy looking."

Their mother blinks, and then she laughs again. "I suppose they are, at that. The one in green is Sam, he's youngest by eight and a half minutes. And in the yellow is my darling Dorothy Ann..."

\--

Castiel sends Gabriel a text: _Found 'em._

He spends nine years waiting for them to develop the capacity for conversation, and then he starts looking for an apartment. He can't find one, so he buys a house instead.

\--

When D turns fourteen, things change. She becomes surly, stops trying to protect Sam from mosquitoes and other pests. Because he knows well enough to leave her alone, Castiel stops inviting either of them over. Things, he decides, must be confusing enough for her.

Castiel isn't quite sure what happens to humans when they turn into teenagers, but all the books he's read indicates that their hormones and neuro-chemical levels undergo drastic changes, resulting in a more adult brain and body. From what he's observed, it makes perfectly pleasant children sullen and argumentative, and turns the lot of them into self-conscious bundles of pitifully low self-esteem.

Leaving them alone seems to be a wise choice. Sam, at least, seems almost grateful.

Instead, he begins to visit D's parents, inviting them over for barbecues and potlucks. He tells them to bring their children.

Fifteen years without company is a long time, but Cas buys a house and gets a job and patiently waits for both of them to grow up, to remember him. He is, to all of the other people in the mostly pleasant small city where Dean and Sam's souls have relocated, Mr. Castiel Engel, and he opens a bookstore because he'd read it in a book. It had sounded nice.

He doesn't bond with the books, not the way the fictional angel had, but he does enjoy the stationary life for a bit.

Of course, when D turns fourteen, she starts acting completely contrary to everything Castiel knows about her. She insists that people call her by her full name. 'Dorothy Ann' is too much of a mouthful for Castiel to be comfortable with, but he does his best, even though Samuel insists on the same treatment.

For three years, Dorothy Ann avoids his house, does not attend his barbecues, and stops wearing sneakers. For three years, she wears skirts and high heels and chases boys instead of working on cars.

He does not know this girl-child with her sullen, pouting lips and her deeply mascara'd eyelashes. Nevertheless, Castiel patiently waits for the girl to regain her sanity and to join him once again. Dean has always managed to remember who he is, and he doubts that this particular reincarnation will be any different.

\--

When D turns seventeen, she insists on being called D again. Everyone in her family takes this as a sign that she's over her small bout of insanity, and as a gift Castiel gives her an old, beaten-up leather jacket.

It is so worn that the leather is buttery soft in places and cracked in others, old enough that it is probably the most comfortable leather jacket in the world. It looks absolutely terrible, but D wears it every day, the jacket clearly too large on her small frame.

She curls into it when she is sad, and looks fondly at it when she is happy.

He is glad she enjoys it.

Dean had made him promise to give it back to him whenever it would be most appreciated. Castiel can appreciate a job well done, because D is never seen without the jacket. Castiel can catch her watching him, sometimes, out of the corner of his eyes, but when he looks back at her she is looking elsewhere.

(Castiel does not know what this means.)

\--

She offers to help out with his gardening, and will stop by the bookstore. Castiel learns to drink tea, because D does not turn down the offer, and he enjoys having company in the afternoon. He learns to bake, because D enjoys cookies, and Castiel enjoys when D is happy.

"So," D asks, leaning against the counter and flipping through a book. She doesn't buy it, and Castiel does not try and sell it to her. (Dean had read it, and had then spent two dreadful, horrifying weeks describing to Castiel and an equally bored Sam just how implausible the idea of vampires romancing high school students was creepy, not romantic. D would enjoy the book, but Castiel does not want to hear her -- or anyone -- talk about it. Ever.)

"Yes?" Castiel responds.

"I was wondering," D says, tilting her head to the side. It is an expression Castiel recognizes as his own, and he wonders just when it was, that D began to emulate him, and not the other way around. Surely he has not been in her life for that long?

"Yes?"

"How old are you?" D asks. "You don't -- I mean, I know you moved here when I was like, nine, but I have no idea how old you are."

"I am much older than you," Castiel says.

"But how much older?"

(Castiel does not know what this means, which is why he does not lie.)

"I am much, much older, D," Castiel says. (He will not call her Dean until she remembers that she is Dean. The soul is the same, though, which is why Castiel will wait for her to remember.)

"You could have been twenty, when you moved here," D suggests. "That would only make you eleven years older than me."

"I was not twenty years old when I moved to this city," Castiel corrects her. He is hesitant to say exactly how old he is, though -- that is a strange question, because this body does not age. He is, of course, ageless -- he has existed longer than the earth, and yet -- Castiel considers his physical age. "You could say that I am eighteen years older than you," he tells D, which is a lie but also not.

D considers this. "That's not too bad," she decides.

(Castiel does not know what this means, either. For an Angel, he is not that smart.)

\--

When D tries to seduce Castiel (the first time), she manages to get halfway out of her clothes before Castiel realizes what's happening.

He takes four nanoseconds to process that, and then he has to grab onto her wrists before she can disrobe any further. "No," he says, politely. "Absolutely not. Dorothy Ann, this is not going to happen."

Her lower lip trembles, softly, like she's trying to stop herself from crying. Castiel knows that she is beautiful, with her dark blond hair and the subtle spray of freckles over the bridge of her nose. She looks so much like Dean, like the Dean he knows and remembers, and yet this girl is nothing like Dean Winchester.

"Come on," She says, chin jutting out bravely. "I want to, Cas--"

It's the first time anyone has called him Cas in a very long time.

"I'm very sorry, D," Castiel sighs, holding out her sweater. "This will not happen. You are... You are too young," he explains, because the legal age of consent is eighteen, and D should be aware of the fact. To take advantage of her, regardless of whether she has invited herself into his bedchamber, would be morally wrong.

She does not take this very well. "What the fuck ever," she snaps, gathering her things. "I have no idea why I'd want to lose it to you, anyway."

Castiel tries not to notice the tight, sad expression of her mouth and eyes. Instead, he shows her to the door.

\--

The second time D tries to seduce Castiel, he wishes her a very happy birthday, and once more politely declines. He does not give a reason, and D is hurt by his refusal. "I am sorry to have hurt your feelings," is what he says to her instead of explaining and she does not speak to him for almost a month.

\--

And then, of course, things go right back to the way they used to be. Sam comes by in the afternoons, hangs out and makes excited hand gestures when he talks about scholarships. Sometimes, Sam will say things like "Stanford is going to be so amazing, the campus is --" and then he stops with a frown on his face.

"Have you been to see the campus?" Castiel asks.

"No," Sam says, uncertainly. "I mean -- I must have looked at pictures, I guess -- I think it's--"

"It is quite a beautiful setting," Castiel agrees, and then he offers to take Sam if his parents are too busy to make the drive.

\--

Castiel opens his door in the middle of the night, in his bare feet and wearing his pajama bottoms and a faded t-shirt, and he sees D with her hair loose around her face, a bruise purpling on her temple. He steps aside to let her in, and he can see the very edges of a collar of bruises around her neck. Tracks of tears are still wet on her cheeks, and he can see that her lower lip is trembling with exertion.

"Dorothy Ann," he says, but D does not let him speak. She drops her purse on the ground, pulls the sleeves of her jacket and drops it as well, carelessly onto the floor.

Castiel watches her, even as he ensures that his door is locked and that there is no longer a threat to D's safety.

She pulls her sweater over her head with a barely-muttered curse, a shift in her muscles that betrays the amount of pain she must be in. Underneath her sweater is a thin white tank top, and she removes that as well, and only when she is standing in the middle of his living room in her bra does she turn to look at him.

He does not need angelic sight in order to spy the bruises on her ribs, the blood smeared on her hip. he can see every scratch, every cut, every bruise, every soft abrasion, and he can see the pain in her very soul as she shakes and trembles.

Gathering her up into his arms, Castiel presses his lips to her temple, folding his wings around her as she sobs onto his shoulder. "I'll kill him," he promises, and he means it.

D shakes her head. "He didn't-- he tried to-- but I took care of it, I did, he won't come after me, he won't hurt anybody ever again, Cas. I took care of it," but she is still shaking, still crying. He holds her tightly, wrapping her up in one of his sweaters. "What can I do?" he asks her, gently. "Tell me what I can do, D. Anything," and he means it, as well.

"Just hold me," D whispers, burying her face in the crook of his neck, pulling her knees up to her chest. "Please, Cas-- just hold me."

\--

D dates other men, older men, and Castiel is amused by her ability to manipulate people until he remembers that she's Dean, and Dean had always been good at that. D sometimes drops hints, mentioning her latest conquest, and Castiel tries his best not to show even the slightest hint of jealousy.

He's still waiting for Dean.

\--

"It's a 1967 Chevy Impala," Castiel says, shifting from foot to foot. "Not with the original engine, of course, that would never pass modern emissions testing, but the framework is perfect. I restored it myself."

"Wow," D says, running a reverent hand over the glossy black hood. She touches the Impala as she would a lover, with gentle patience and a loving caress. "This is-- she's beautiful, Cas," and she says it with a smile on her face, not teasing, but admiring. "You give her a name yet?"

"Yes," Castiel nods, seriously, because naming a vehicle is one of the important things he's learned during his time on earth. It is important to give the car the correct name, to treat the car the way he would treat a loved one. That is the way that Dean had treated his car, and Castiel will do no differently. "Her name is Frances."

D chokes back a cry, and then turns to Castiel with an incredulous expression. "Frances?" She repeats, scorn dripping from her tone. "You named this beautiful machine _Frances_?"

"Yes," Castiel replies smoothly, his face solemn. "It was appropriate."

"There is absolutely no way that was appropriate," D argues. "Explain, Cas. She's not a Frances."

"She is indeed a Frances," Castiel disagrees patiently. "It is her name. But everyone calls her Baby."

The expression on D's face is comical.

"Because," Castiel intones in his most serious tone, "Nobody puts Baby in the corner."

"You're not funny," D says, but her face is doing this complicated thing where it is attempting to frown in displeasure and break into uncontrollable laughter all at once, and her voice is suspiciously reminiscent of someone attempting to hold back laughter.

"I'm hilarious," Castiel says.

\--

D looks at Castiel with confused incomprehension in her eyes, her mouth slightly open as she stares at him. Castiel's eyes stray, once, to her chapped and bitten lips, but he does not give into his urge to give her the cherry chapstick he has in his coat pocket, because D will not use it.

"You're crazy," D says, finally, hands clenching around the steering wheel. "You're fucking crazy, Castiel."

He feels a sudden pang, then, a small stab of hurt that she has not used his nickname. D's hands are squeezing the wheel, and her brow is creased with something like concentration.

"I don't understand," she says, and her voice is suspiciously thick. "Castiel, this is your baby, I don't understand--"

"It's yours," Castiel says. "It was... for you. I thought that you would like it," and she does, he'd made sure of it. This wasn't the original impala, they hadn't managed to save more than a few parts from it, but he'd worked hard to rebuild the car. He'd worked hard to make sure that it was perfect, for her.

"But she's yours," D protests, weakly.

He shakes his head, rests his fingertips on the slight dip of her elbow. "No," he says. "She was always yours." And there's a wealth of emotion in the words, things he cannot say, things he wishes he could. He doesn't know why it has taken so long for her to remember -- whether she ever will, or if this is all he can ever have, with Dean -- the soul he used to know as Dean.

She turns the car off with a flick of her fingers, and then she sits back in the seat, pressing her palm down flat on the dashboard. "I don't understand," D says, again. "You can't just give me a car, Cas."

"But I _want_ to give you a car," Castiel counters easily.

Tilting her head to look at him, D gazes at Castiel, through her eyelashes, cheeks flushed pink. Her tongue slips out, wetting her lips, and then D speaks again. "You can't do this, Cas," she says, hoarsely. "You can't do this to me. I don't understand, I don't get it. If you--" and she stops, embarrassed, but Castiel can still read the lines of her soul.

He reaches for her, grabs her hand and lets her twine their fingers together, squeezing almost too tightly.

"Cas," D says. "You don't have to give me things. I don't know what you want from me, only that you don't want sex, or... I have no idea what it is. Sometimes you act like you're so in love with me that I feel like I'm drowning in it, and then you back away as if it's not me you want." She is staring down at their hands, white-knuckled under the strain of her grip. "Cas, I need to understand."

"I wish I could explain," Castiel says, holding her hand and refusing to let go. "But I do love you, D."

\--

The third time, D says "Please," and "Cas," and curls up to him, warm body against his own, sneaking past his defences and laying him open before her. Her face is wet and her eyes are glossy with tears. She is not trying to seduce him, she is crying and Castiel has no choice but to put his arms around her, to draw her close and hold her tight, and when he kisses her it is not because of lust or attraction, but because he needs to kiss away her sadness and pain.

D spends the night in Castiel's arms, and when she strips away her clothing and climbs into his bed in the morning, Castiel cannot find a way to say no.

\--

When D remembers, she looks at Castiel with a surprised expression. "Wow," she says, over the breakfast table, in the middle of eating a piece of bacon. "This is kind of awkward." She continues eating her bacon.

Cas looks up from his paper (he enjoys newspapers, and has been known to miracle up editions that are nothing but comics) and smiles. "Dean," he says.

"Yup," Dean says. "This is _definitely_ awkward."

But he leans over the table and kisses Castiel anyway, a bit hesitant but familiar nonetheless, and in the background Castiel can hear Sam groaning.

"You guys are gross," Sam yells.

Dean flips him off, curling a leanly muscled arm around Castiel's neck so that she can pull him close and kiss him again.

\--


	5. Chapter 5

Castiel walks the earth. Dean and Sam walk with him.

(Mostly, though, they drive the Impala.)

\--

The End (Maybe).

\--

  


Illustration by [](http://sleepwalker1015.livejournal.com/profile)[**sleepwalker1015**](http://sleepwalker1015.livejournal.com/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The authors would like to extend their most sincere thanks to the following sources:
> 
> Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, co-authors of "Good Omens", to which we made a subtle reference. You know, Castiel reading about an angel who owned a book shop, in Part 4?  
> JK Rowling's "Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them" from the Harry Potter Universe. This is mentioned directly in Part 2, "Castiel and Sam vs. the Occamy".  
> Joss Whedon: for a line from Buffy the Vampire Slayer ("It's fruitless. It is without fruit!") in Part 3, when Castiel learns to drive, and also for a Firefly-inspired scene in part three ("He looked bigger when I couldn't see him!") Castiel and Sam vs. the Mephit.  
> Marvel Comics, for passing references to the X-Men, Spiderman, and anything else we've forgotten we wrote about.  
> Belisarius Productions & the creators of J*A*G, for a passing reference to JAG in part 4. Castiel and Gabriel discuss the characters Harm and Mac.  
> The creators of The Magic School Bus, because 'Dorothy Ann' is a way better name than 'Deanna'.  
> Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, for a quotation from Le Petit Prince in the DVD extras  
> The creators of Stargate:SG-1 for the references to Wormhole X-Treme (a fictional show that only exists in that universe).  
> And of course, Eric Kripke, for creating this amazing universe and filling it with such amazing characters and then killing all the fun ones. (Mary, John, Azazel, Andy, Ava, Jess, Bela, Jo, Ellen, Ash, Ruby, Uriel, Anna, Zachariah, Gabriel, Hendricksen, Lillith, Alastair, Samuel and Deanna Campbell, Gordon...) Seriously, Kripke, we love you, but you're not leaving us a lot to work with, here.
> 
>  
> 
> Author's Notes
> 
> Epiphanyx7: 
> 
> Once upon a time, in a fit of insanity, I decided to write snippets of "Five Supernatural AUs that I am NOT going to write." This was the first, weirdly enough, and I really had no intention of ever writing the complete story. How could I? My imagination said "Wouldn't it be awesome if Castiel was like, on earth for ALL OF ETERNITY and he kept finding reincarnated-versions of Sam and Dean? And for some reason or another -- maybe because Cas in an angel, maybe becuase its FATE, they remembered him, and would always try to find him?" Yeah I was not going to write this, I was going to write Star Trek slavefic, and somehow THIS is what I ended up writing. Yeah. Yeah. IDEFK. I completely and totally blame Leen, who was all "What happens next? I need to know. What's going on? Lookit my mesmerizing and hypnotic breasts, don't you want to do everything I ask? You are feeling verrrrry sleepy..."
> 
> So in conclusion, this entire thing is her fault, she made me do it and I made her co-write it with me, and she came up with a lot of the fantastic ideas and was all demanding about it needing MORE CASTIEL and then MORE GABRIEL and then NO THERE SHOULD BE MORE SEX and really, really, really. This is ALL HER FAULT. We had a lot of fun writing this, (at least I did) and there was a rather interesting three-day period in which she camped out on my couch and prodded me with a very sharp stick every time I stopped writing. That's the only reason the story was finished at all, the only reason that I didn't cry myself to sleep at night and then drop out of the big bang for reasons related to HATING EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS STORY. And so, please remember, that even if she says that I did the heavy lifting here, she was like a magical unicorn pony of wish-granting and sparkly rainbows, and kept me sane, rubbed my back, comforted me, made me keep writing, gave me ideas, hugged me a lot, made me food, wrote quite a lot of the scenes, and fixed obvious grammar/spelling mistakes that I didn't even notice (like calling Cas "Catsiel").
> 
> I love her more than I love Misha Collins, which is like a lot.
> 
>  
> 
> Unavoidedcrisis/Sunspot:
> 
>  
> 
> Eight months ago, Bean told me she was never ever going to write this AU. Now it's 40k+ and we can't seem to go 2 days without talking about another scene we want to write. Writing this story made me happy in ways I can't describe. It also made me sad enough that I cried, laugh hard enough to pull a muscle, and frustrated enough to threaten to defenestrate my co-author. (GDI, NO ONE IS ADOPTING A WOLF BABY EVER PERIOD END OF DISCUSSION FOREVER)
> 
> Of course, for as often as I threatened to hurt her, I loved her twice more. We had too much fun writing this and I'm so glad we opted to keep the part about puppy!Sam, which is my favourite thing in the history of things, except maybe for the Skittle billboard at the end of part two.
> 
> Whatever happens from here, I am so so glad I got to work on this and I hope you all like it as much as I do..
> 
> And of course, a hundred kajillion hugs for sleepwalker1015, who did art for us, and who was extremely enthusiastic and wonderful when doing her illustrations. If you haven't already, please check out her art post!


End file.
